


Of Pride and Pestiferous Pathos

by SchonAndDying, tableflipapocalypse



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Characters as well, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hallucinations, Hanahaki Disease, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sexual Harassment, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Terminal Illnesses, Vomiting, its my own twist of hanahaki, last tag is for a plot foil, nothing explicit or overly traumatic, very brief - Freeform, we love you Boupha we SWEAR, with its own symptoms, zombies made out of plants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 115,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23320720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SchonAndDying/pseuds/SchonAndDying, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tableflipapocalypse/pseuds/tableflipapocalypse
Summary: Love. So sickeningly sweet. Terribly painful. Wonderfully human.Humans were made to love. Their hands interlock so perfectly. Bodies made to hold each other. Voices made to sing and speak of each other. Hair grown to play with. Beautifully soft and fragile, made to protect each other to see the loving warmth of the morning sun. It's a wonderful part of human nature to love and be loved. Human nature was also to suffer and die. As much as one human can love and be loved by any other. They will suffer and struggle just as much. Their bodies are so weak, anything could kill them. Especially diseases.The letter comes in a beige envelope, sealed closed with a kiss. It's folded into threes and also signed with a kiss. It asks for no gun, ray, nor device. Nothing tangible. But it asks for one thing. A brand new disease. One that targets people in love and promptly kills them.Do demons succumb to diseases as well?
Relationships: 5.0.5 & Black Hat (Villainous), 5.0.5 & Demencia (Villainous), 5.0.5 & Dr. Flug (Villainous), Black Hat & Demencia (Villainous), Black Hat/Dr. Flug (Villainous), Demencia & Dr. Flug (Villainous)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 62





	1. You Like Flowers, Right?

**Author's Note:**

> Due to the recent Covid-19 pandemic, I wish to stress that the development of this particular idea and fic was put into motion months before this virus began its international spread. This fic, by no means, intends to mock or put down any victims of this virus, or is intended to cause any harm to people affected by the current pandemic.
> 
> [Rating is liable for change as chapters progress]

“You wanted to see me, Patrón?” Flug asks, stepping halfway through the door to BlackHat’s office. Clacking the papers on the wood of his desk loudly, he looks up in a blasé manner. Setting them down he folds his hands over them, obscuring the words written. 

“Yes. Close the door behind you as well, Doctor.” The door leaves his hand as he begins to push it closed, swinging slowly and locking itself with a quiet click. Clasping his hands together behind his back he makes his way in front of his grand desk. A razor thin pupil looks up from the paper to meet his gaze. The simple action has his chest constricting and a small breath halt in his throat. “I have a proposal for you from a regular client.”

He pushes a paper across the desk with two fingers. Picking it up, he looks it over carefully. It was a handwritten letter, folded into threes addressed to Blackhat from Miss Chievous. She had been commissioning special items from the Organization for over five years and seemed to have a particular taste for psychological inventions. Scanning the paper quickly, he has to return to a higher line and read more carefully near the middle, brows quirking downwards as he reads more carefully.

“Unrequited love?” Looking up with the question, BlackHat gives him a nod and motions with a roll of his wrist to continue. Most of the letter explains her desire for a disease to be developed that thrived in hosts that suffered an unrequited love. In one line, she mentions an old Japanese myth that bloomed inside the hearts of those cursed to suffer through an unrequited infatuation. Oddly enough, she tells him not to make any sort of container for her personal use. But to allow the finished product straight into the general population. The offered price is roughly five million U.S. dollars; she is willing to negotiate prices. 

“Indeed. Release right into the pig pen, a disease none of your kind has built any sort of immunity to. The last time something like this happened, it ravaged your civilizations and killed millions.” With a grin he rests his elbows on his desk, steepling finely manicured claws beneath his chin and tapping them together. Eye squinting slightly at the memory before his expression returning to as it had been before. “Do you think you’ll be able to replicate that, Doctor?”

“Perhaps not the millions part.” Gloved fingers lock with each other over his thighs, pressing into them as he tries to look at his boss, but not in the eye. “But I have modified DNA before.”

“It was a simple yes or no question.” He says and reaches forwards, pulling the paper from his hands and returning it to its earlier position on the desk. Flattening out the paper and straightening it, he's careful to avoid the sultry red stain of lipstick on the bottom corner above Miss Chevious' signature.

“I believe I can, Sir.” He had modified DNA while creating 5.0.5. But that had been so long ago and he had been half-asleep during most of it. It would be a miracle if he held onto any of that information after all these years. 

"Splendid." He folds up the letter and tucks it back into the envelope. Another kiss across the seal lining up as it’s closed. "I want the work on the catalog on hold until you've made significant progress on this commission." 

"Yes, Sir." He nods, somewhat eager to get back to the general safety of his lab. While BlackHat didn't appear too annoyed, his temper was notorious for exploding at any second over anything. It was best to get in and out of his office before anything happened. Though, he always was calmer when discussing business and commissions he particularly likes. 

He leans back in his grand chair, the tips of his claws tapping together under his chin. "You're dismissed now." Nodding, he offers a brief bow before turning and quickly making his way towards the door. His hands coming up to tug and shift his bag on his head as the door opens and closes without him ever touching it. Once outside he sighs in relief and leans against the door.

Adjusting his goggles again he breathes out and shakes his head. _Work. Right_ . Looking up he drops his hands from his head. _How the hell am I supposed to do this_ ? Pushing off the door he makes his way back downstairs, careful to listen for Demencia along the way back to the lab. _However the hell I made my Fluffy is how._

Luckily he manages to get to the lab without any incident. Luckier so, the lab was empty. Which probably wouldn’t last when he started to get into his work; he had a feeling Demencia could sense when he was finally truly focused on his work and decided then to mess with him. There was no keeping track of the measures he had taken to keep his tools, inventions, and blueprints away from her and intact. 

Nevertheless, she wasn’t here now and he needed the free time to plan and maybe start. _Disease… Disease? A virus might do_. Recalling the myth Miss Chevious had written briefly about, he decides to test out respiratory viruses. 

Influenza was highly infectious and great at adapting. Colds are gradual and tend to last several days. Those two overlap nicely in symptoms and may be easy to work with—easy as virology can be. Additionally, he had previous experience with handling plant DNA, thanks to the creation of 5.0.5.

If she wanted unrequited love, he could throw in a few love stereotypes and see what worked and could survive. Flowers were a go-to, right? If possible he could make them overly affectionate to those their love is directed at until the disease needed to spread and they either killed the person or self destructed to help it spread.

 _Love. Love. Love._ He mutters the word to himself as he leans over a page of notes and lazily written down ideas. The pencil swings back and forth between his middle and fore fingers as he worries at his bottom lip. _How the hell do you weaponize love? Well, you have to target those chemicals. So…_

Tilting himself back on his wooden stool he looks up from his pile of papers and miscellaneous blueprints from other projects. He had a book around here somewhere about human biology. It was- it was in his room. He hadn’t needed to use it in a few years, since high school really. Well, after coming here. It had been one of the first things he had ordered. 

Slipping off the stool he makes his way over to his room attached to the lab. The book is thick, roughly the width of his hand and as heavy as a kettle filled with water. Just about one thousand pages jammed packed with most everything humans understood about themselves. 

With the book securely beneath his arm he makes his way back out and into the lab. He barely has time to close the door behind himself before the door to the lab is thrown open, hitting the metal wall with a loud bang that shakes the floor. Demencia places her foot back onto the floor, tongue caught between her teeth as she grins mostly to herself. 

“Fluggy!” She calls and bounds over to him, slapping her tennis shoes loudly against the ground. “What’cha got there?” Pointing to the book for a moment she then pulls it from his hold and looks over it. The paper is peeling in places from the cardboard cover, but the drawing of a man, all organs neatly labeled to the sides, was still visible through the wear and tear. 

“Give it back, Demencia. I need it for a commission.” He grabs for the book back but she spins away, hair hitting him in the bag. 

“Oh! It’s nerdy stuff, isn’t it?” She hunches herself over the book. Twisting and turning to keep it from his hands as she flips through the pages. “What kinda commission is it? You gonna make zombies? Or are you gonna turn people inside out?!”

“What?! No! Just give it back, you don’t even need it.” Reaching for it again he stumbles as she pushes him away with her foot at his knee. 

“If you’re not gonna tell me what you need it for, you can’t have it!” With the book pressed to her chest she makes her way across the room. Her running in the lab always made his heartbeat spike. There was a tendency with her to be… less than graceful. More often than not in these past few years, her causing trouble was the leading factor of him needing to redo something or clean—well, help 5.0.5 clean—a large mess. 

“That doesn’t even make sense, Dem! Just hand it over. You can play with it once I get some notes down.” He follows after her, stopping as she steps up onto the wall, staring at him sideways, hair brushing against the floor. 

“Then it’s not fun!” She whines through a grin. “Just come and get it! Cat and mouse! I’m the mouse!” 

“Don’t make me get Lord BlackHat.” He threatens. It didn’t, and never worked. In fact, it really seemed to encourage her every time. She _wanted_ to see BlackHat every chance she got. But what other threat did he have? She’d chew all of his tools to shreds if he took anything of hers, or tear up all his spare bags if he gave her the cold shoulder. 

“Jokes on you, Fluggy!” She starts, watching with gleeful eyes as Flug makes his way over. Scurrying up the wall she balances the book onto her stomach as she crawls on all fours across the ceiling to the middle of the room. “I love seeing him! And I love annoying you!”

“You’ve done that! Are you happy, can you give it back now?” Following her across the lab, craning his head back to watch her. Green hair sways in the air beside her, just within reaching distance. Reaching up he grabs the curled end of it and gives a gentle tug. “Come down before you break a light fixture!”

“You’re bright enough, nerd! Besides, I’m n+ot done looking through your book.” With one hand she leans the book back against a thigh and flips through the pages back and forth. 

“What? You’re not even reading it!” Pulling harder on her hair he tries to get her to drop down. instead, as her other hand comes off the ceiling the book tumbles down, followed by Demencia’s ungraceful, flailing form as both crash against Flug. Who, in his attempt to get away from both of them, falls back and catches his forearm against the corner of the metal table. 

Hissing he pulls his arm to his chest and glares up at the empty ceiling. The metal panels stare back down at him, observing Demencia’s momentarily stunned form against his, splayed out and bending the first few pages of his book underneath her knee. She feels nearly as much as the dread when he thinks of all he needs to do. They are not as easy to shove off as she is, or fall back onto the ground as limply as she does.

“I think I broke something.” She mutters, eyes peering at him through squinted eyes. 

“You’ve never broken a bone in your life.” He says reaching and grabbing the book. Flattening the pages he watches as they slowly bend back out of place. “Nothing’s broken, you’ve had way worse.” 

Sitting up pink bangs curl in front of her face every which way, pearly teeth on full display from a wide grin. With a quick motion she snatches the book from his hand, holding it between three fingers and waving it above the both of them. 

“Just tell me, Nerd.” Wiggling the thick volume between them she lets it slip from her hold as Flug snatches it back and slams it down onto the table behind him. 

“Miss Chevious commissioned a biological weapon of sorts. All I need is a refresher.” He stands up and checks his arm, tilting it awkwardly and looks at the scratch on his arm. It was bleeding, but not deep enough to leave a scar- hopefully. 

"Was that so hard?" Smiling, she stands up. Tugging him roughly to his feet by his elbow. He stumbles into her awkwardly before shaking her hand off. 

"With you, yes." Messing her bangs up further with his palm, he takes her by the shoulders, turns her around and pushes her towards and out the door. Tennis shoes squeak on the floor as she wobbles forwards, toes catching on the small dip separating the lab and staircase. 

As she goes to correct herself and turn back around to face him he slams the heavy steel door. Turning back towards the lab he swipes his hands together with a sigh and closing eyes before setting about his labs for what he thinks he'll need. 

One table becomes notes and planning through the day and the other is cleared in preparation for when he receives samples. Demencia probably couldn't be trusted to bring them safely to the lab, perhaps not for a lack of trying, more so on account of the fact that she was the most graceful woman to ever tread Earth. 5.0.5 hopefully would have more luck—of course that is if BlackHat doesn't decide to roam the manor while he was transporting the samples, or if Demencia doesn’t get her sights on him.

Nevertheless how he would get his hands on said samples, he had a good few candidates in mind. Rhinovirus, influenza, pertussis maybe. The mention of the myth from the letter has given him an idea to see if the viral DNA would accept plant DNA. Nothing was set in stone yet, but he certainly had plans.

The lab door opens and creaks close. Looking up from his notepad to the door he drops his shoulders and smiles. "Hey, Buddy." He greets as 5.0.5 pads over beside him, pressing against him and growling quietly. “You’re just in time, actually,” he says as he reaches up to scratch beneath his chin. “I need you to fetch Papa something very important? Is my fluffy up for this?” At his tone alone his eyes light up.

* * *

“Hmm… What am I doing wrong?” Leaning back to look over the entirety of the table, pressing his palms against the edge and curling his fingers down against the metal. There weren't any apparent reactions between samples with exactly what he was attempting to do. It seemed viruses weren't as primed to accept plant DNA into its nuclear genetic coding as he had hoped; but never say never to science. 

He'll force them together if it kills him. And judging on this headache he was getting, it probably might be. Leaning over samples like this without proper coverings might not be his best idea… But at least Demencia was leaving him alone! 

Standing, he flips a notepad closed and carefully moves a vacuum sealed Petri dish away from the edge of the table. With a kick he moves the stool back underneath the worktable before clicking on a smaller lamp. The lowering of the light soothes the incoming headache. 

Grabbing his half finished mug from the second table he leans back and guides the straw beneath his bag. Chewing at the end of it as his free hand flicks a pen back and forth in his fingers. He doesn't manage to delve deep into his own thoughts before there's that all too familiar scraping and taps overhead in the vents.

Immediately he sets his cup down and moves to save his Petri dishes. However, this seems to do more harm to himself than good. Demencia falls unceremoniously from the vents as she usually does, this time flailing her body in a way to land on top of the table. Her back crushes his arm as he goes to grab the first sample to move, which smashes it into the third Petri dish. It cracks beneath his exposed arm, directly beneath his previously acquired cut. 

"Demencia!" He shrieks in horror, trying to wrench his arm free from underneath her; only seeming to work the mixture more into the cut. "Move! You lizard!" 

"Work on your insult game." She says, sitting up and hopping down from the table. "You have to put more _bite_ into it! Really make me feel you're mad! Try again." Hand on her hip she turns and looks at him, eyes momentarily moving to the table's surface. "Whoops, did I do that?"

"Yes!" He screeches, cradling and wiping at his arm with the bottom of his jacket. It was too late- he knew. It probably already was in his blood. That hodgepodge of unrefined chemicals. Sometimes, he really just doesn't care for Demencia. 

Moving to the emergency eye washing station he sticks his arm over it and starts the water, rubbing at the cut to try and get rid of whatever was left on his skin. Demencia hovers behind him, grabbing at the back of his coat in her own form of an apology.

"What did you get in you? You're gonna get superhuman powers now? Oh! You can be like the rest of us and stop being such a baby during missions!" Tugging on his coat she bounces on her toes. Flug turns the water off, shaking his arm off to the side before frowning at her.

"I'm not 'being a baby’! I'm being thorough. You're the one that derails my plans." He protests, pulling his lab coat from her fingers to dry off with. There's a sharp giggling behind him as Demencia rounds back to the work table to look over the damage. 

"It was your silly plans that got Sunblast to follow us." She says, picking at a broken Petri dish, watching the sample inside drip out onto the table. Flug rushes over and pries it from her fingers, wiping them off of his coat. 

"Don't touch that! You'll get sick!" Shrugging off his scolding she wiggles her fingers free and checks to make sure her lime nail polish hadn't been scuffed. 

"I'm a lot more resilient than you." She says with her tongue stuck out. Mimicking the movement, he shoves her away by her forehead. 

"Go see what Jefecito's doing or something. I have to clean up after you." Stumbling at the force she gives him a blank look like that name means nothing to her for a moment before everything seems to click on inside her brain and she stands straighter. 

"Blackie! Here I come!" She coos up towards the ceiling before hurrying out, giggling and laughing like a child all the way. Flug watches her go before going over and pushing the heavy metal door shut, giving it a good shove with his shoulder. With a sigh, he turns back towards his work table and flips the brighter lights back on.

The earlier headache flaring up as he moves to clean the mess. Stopping momentarily to replace his gloves which had only been taken off for the more delicate aspects of what he had been doing before being interrupted. Luckily, she didn't crush every sample.

It wasn’t long after that Flug noticed the start of a cough. Really, it was just the beginning of one, nothing he hasn’t powered through and maybe eaten a few vegetables over out of paranoia before. But all too quickly it dissolves into something much worse. The pain, which pulsates and aches at every joint, had made him retreat to his bed for a short nap. Just to see if some sleep would dispel whatever he was coming down with. But when he woke he had slept through all eight alarms, an extra five hours, and was in far worse condition. 

Skin sticky and hot to the touch, he could do little more than lay still and breath. Sharp pains and aches resonated through his entire body. They pinched in his joints and came and went as they pleased through his stomach and chest. Once, and only once, he had pushed himself up to try and _force_ himself back to work but his head had felt like a balloon seconds away from bursting. His eyes buzzed, there was an odd pressure in his ears, and the world seemed to tilt and turn in a way his body wasn’t. 

Worries of an angered BlackHat appearing in his room or summoning was at the back of his mind as he laid there, staring up at the ceiling. For the next few hours he thinks he dozes in and out of consciousness. Though they all seem to blend and mix into each other until there’s no true point in trying to differentiate any of them. 

At some point 5.0.5 comes in. He tries briefly to convince the bear to leave. Spare himself from possibly catching whatever amalgamation he had infected himself with. But he would hear none of it and left only to return with a soup mug of tomato soup and a spoon the size of Flug’s eye. Truly, he would have really liked to sit up and eat it, somewhere in those how many naps his mouth had started tasting like dog food, or dirt. The movement to even begin to sit up on his elbow made the entirety of him feel as though he was lurching from his bed and he paused before dropping himself onto the pillow.

“Thanks, Sweetie.” He says, though his voice was starting to become scratchy and sore. 5.0.5 'baws' and settles into the floor beside his bed. "Why don't you grab a plushie to keep you company?" He whispers, knowing full well 5.0.5 would plan to sit there until Flug could move again.

There's a brief, uneasy silence from him. It takes a little encouragement before he stands up and waddles towards the door. He looks back in the doorway, ears dropping on his head and flower tilted down before he steps out. The glass doors hiss closed over him as he wiggles out of his coat and nearly rips his bag as he takes it off.

He supposes he fell back asleep in that time. Because the next thing he knows he's in that odd plane of being where one's brain is awake but the body hasn't received the message quite yet. Shivers rake his body but it feels as though he's been dipped into boiling water.

"And how long will he be like this?" Something snaps awake inside him at the sound of BlackHat's voice. He wanted to sit up and cower but there was no muscle within himself that was willing to actually go through with the action. Another part wants to be self-conscious about so many people being around to see him bag-less, but the energy doesn’t remain. 5.0.5 makes a small growling noise from nearby. There's a soft ruffling and hissing as the doors to his cryogenic bed open. A soft weight lays down on top of him, promptly tucked beneath his sides.

"'I don't know' is not an answer, bear!" The sound of the door follows as it closes loudly, not quite slamming, followed by a brief silence. 5.0.5 sighs quietly and settles back onto the floor. Flug falls back asleep after that.

When he fully wakes again it's to the smell of soup. His eyes hurt to have open, throat sore, and stomach ache much less severe. But at least- no, he still feels as though he could vomit. 

Curling further into the blanket over top him, as he coughs, grabbing onto the fabric and digging his face in. A paw nudges his face out and feels at his forehead and cheeks. Flug attempts to turn away from the touch. Not feeling up to being poked and prodded at. But there was little he could do to stop it. 5.0.5 pets his hair in a manner that is supposed to be soothing; but his paws are much too big and he gets much too clumsy while nervous to be gentle. So he ends up just patting him instead of comforting. 

“Fluff,” He groans, cracking an eye open and peering up at him. The lights had been dimmed some time ago, but they were still too bright and burned his retinas. “Stop it. What’re you doing?”

A soft 'baw' of excitement had Flug even more confused. The paw stops however, and gives him enough room to shimmy up into a sitting position. 5.0.5 sits beside his cryogenic bed, tricolor fish plush sitting near Flug's knees. 

"How long was I out of it?" He mumbles blearily, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead to rub at his eyes. 5.0.5's growl has him sitting up in alarm, head spinning at the speed and vision flashes.

"A _week_?! BlackHat's going to kill me!" Panicking he tries to stand up, only to be stopped by both 5.0.5 and a wave of nausea washing over him. "Oh, the commission needs to be finished." He groans, pushing himself up onto his elbow again. 

Explaining briefly, 5.0.5 twists and grabs a large mug of chicken noodle soup. Flug watches him with sagging shoulders. Taking the cup he swirls the noodles around inside, frowning as small bits of chicken floated around. He was starving but if he stuck anything in his mouth he might not be able to hold it. 

"He-" Staring into the soup in puzzlement he ponders the words. BlackHat gave him as long as he needed to recover? There had been plenty of times Flug had gotten sick or couldn't work for a day or two, but he'd always been expected to continue working. What was different now? 

"A week?" He mumbles. "I don't remember all of it, but I guess it might have been a week." Swiping his fingers through the mop of carrot orange curls over his forehead. He needed a shower… 5.0.5 'baws' and stands up. As he moves towards the closet Flug notices he's moved his bed into the room. And that he's turned off his alarm. 

Soon he returns with a towel in his hands and a small bundle of clothes. He stares up at him for a moment before realization dawns on him and he places the mug down on his bedside table. Taking the towel and clothes into his arms, 5.0.5 gently helps him to his feet and into the bathroom. Although reluctant to leave him on his own, 5.0.5 grants him his privacy to bathe.

Flug places the towel and clothes down onto the toilet lid and kneels beside the bath, turning the water on and plugging up the tub. Awkwardly and slowly, he shimmies from his dirty clothes. Careful not to move too fast or suddenly. Eventually, he turns the water off and lowers himself into the water.

A few minutes later, outside the bathroom door he hears the sound of a door open and close. The quiet noises of 5.0.5 organizing ceasing immediately as he makes a curious noise.

"Where is the Doctor?" It's BlackHat's voice that asks the question. Suddenly the water doesn't feel as nice and Flug feels very embarrassed to be so undressed. 5.0.5 answers and all he can do is pray his boss understood and respected the human custom of _not walking in on people in the bathroom_. For all things he could be baffled about with his species, please don't let it be this.

There is a sudden knocking at the door. But the handle doesn't turn or jerk. "Doctor, I want you in my office immediately when you finish for a new timeline on the commission." Being spoken to while bathing was still certainly embarrassing, but so much better than being walked in on. He sags into the water in relief.

"O-Of course, my Lord! I'll- I'll be up as soon as possible!" He calls back, grabbing onto the edge of the tub. Silence follows from the other side and Flug assumes he's been left alone. Sighing, he works the last of the shampoo through his dense curls before rinsing his hair out and pulling the plug.

Quickly, enough to make himself dizzy three times, he dries off and dresses. He spends a longer while towel drying his hair so it doesn't soak through his bag. There was no need to wear it within the manor, where everyone had seen his face numerous times. But he'd already spent a week out of it. And what harm could one more comfort item cause?

Once he was sure that he wouldn't soak through the paper he pulls on a freshly cut paper bag—with many thanks to 5.0.5—and his goggles. Smoothing out his lab coat and pulling at his gloves he slowly makes his way out from the lab and into the main entrance. His legs wobbled as he walked and his thighs felt as though they might give underneath him. He felt very much like a fawn learning to walk. 

Taking it one stair at a time, 5.0.5 hovers behind him anxiously. It felt ridiculous to need to be watched walking up the stairs. But once 5.0.5 had noticed the way he stumbled and swayed on his feet it would be too hard to shake him to be worth it. Everything had grown unused to being worked and used while he was bedridden. Hopefully, BlackHat wouldn't want him to do much other than stand and speak.

Standing was still like being on a boat, but he could do it! That was a huge improvement than… last week. How he managed to sleep away a week was still amazing to him.

Knocking on the door to BlackHat's office, he sends a smile over to 5.0.5. Sensing the message he smiles back before heading off down the hall to busy himself as he waited for their meeting to be over.

"Come in, Doctor." The door opens on its own accord. Slowly and with a quiet squeal that Flug's sure BlackHat put there purposefully. The lights are dimmed and seem to be tinted red. Curtains of the grand window behind his desk pulled back, allowing a beautiful view of the sky in a watercolor of purples, reds, pinks, and oranges as the sun sets off to the west.

BlackHat sits at his desk, talons steepled in front of his mouth which was pulled into a familiar frown. Brim of his hat tilted downwards to cover a majority of his eye and monocle. The glass catches in the dim light and the light moves across the surface of it as his head lifts up. Their eyes meet and for a brief moment, Flug's knees feel just a hair weaker. 

"You wanted to see me, Sir?" He asks, hand coming up to the door frame. BlackHat seems to look him up and down as though he were looking for something. Moving a hand to motion him in with a wave with a small nod. Flug steps inside the office, kneeling and bowing before him. 

“Stand up, Doctor. Lest you vomit on the carpet.” BlackHat snaps, resting his chin on the heel of his palm. Sitting up he briefly gives BlackHat a bemused look before standing. Leaning on his hands as he got his feet beneath him and closing his eyes for a moment as his head swam.

"Of course, Sir." He says, clutching his hands behind his back. It seemed his getting sick had put him in a sour mood. And while he didn't particularly feel like sitting through a long rant about costing the organization money, and how weak humans were, he would- he just wouldn't like it. 

"How is your condition?" He asks, watching him fidget in front of him. The question, however, does catch him off guard. What he had expected was something more aggressive. 'Who told you you could get sick?' 'Do you realize how much money you cost us by just pausing the catalog to work on this commission? And now you put us a week behind because what?' 'How incompetent in your job that you can't even handle chemicals properly anymore?!'

"Uh- It's… I'm feeling much more prepared to work now. I'll take steps to ensure nothing like this happens again and won't rest until I've completed the commission to yours and Miss Chevious' liking, Lord- BlackHat- uh, Sir!" Stumbling over for the right thing to say, he just opens his mouth and spits out words. Not entirely sure if they're what he's supposed to be saying. It doesn't seem that way when BlackHat gives him an unimpressed look.

"The bear said you had a fever for several days. Tell me about that." He says, chair moving to the left slightly as he sets his hand down onto his desk.

"Oh. Uh- Well I don't believe it's as severe as it was before, Lord BlackHat. 5.0.5 was checking it for me earlier and didn't find it to be too high." Intertwining his fingers and tugging until one knuckle pops he stares as BlackHat's never changing expression through his goggles. Any earlier reassurances about what he would be confronted with shriveling up in nervousness. 

“You’re functional now, yes?” _What am I? A machine?_ He thinks miserably before forcing himself to nod, popping another knuckle and surprising himself with the noise of it. 

“I should be able to return to work now, yes.” He says, nodding again. BlackHat features remain displeased as he stares at him. Trying to stand as still as possible he averts his gaze to the papers on his desk and the shiny, golden nameplate. Perhaps the silence is only tense to him, but there’s a tense silence nonetheless for a minute or two as BlackHat seems to mull something over. 

“Very well,” He says, waving his hand towards the door. “You’re dismissed.” With a third nod, that has his head spinning for a moment, he quickly turns and makes his way towards the door. As he approaches it, the locks click and the door cracks open for him. Taking the handle into his hand he slips outside and slowly closes it behind him. Sighing in relief, he presses a hand to his chest and turns towards the stairs.

He barely has time to turn and open his eyes fully before he’s jolting backwards and stumbling on his own feet with a yelp. Big blue paws catch him before he hits the ground and jerkily sets him back down onto his feet. Fingers dig into said fur as the concept of gravity returns to Flug and he gets his bearings. 

“You- You can’t sneak up on me like that, Fluffy.” Patting at his arm he stands on his own, looking up at the anxious bear. Reaching up he scratches the best he can with wobbly knees behind a drooping ear. “It’s okay. I’m not mad. Just- give Papa a little warning next time.” Glancing over at the office door he figures he better take his gushing elsewhere- lest Blackhat decides to step out and see. “Let’s get back to work.” 5.0.5 nods and takes one of his hands to help him down the stairs.

* * *

Heroes had a tendency towards pleasantries that were all too easy to take advantage of in the best of ways. They loved to gather civilians into one, large, open space. Bore them to death with a speech a hero a century ago could have said, and show off what little they could do with themselves besides look pretty and rich. Especially on holidays. 

Really, one would assume they’d learn eventually these were bad ideas. Any large cluster of people listening to some rich man blather on optimistically tended to be bad news. But at least one would think they’d learn from the… oh, probably hundreds of surprise attacks carried out on these sorts of events. 

However, one does not complain or question when the perfect release group practically hands themselves over to him. What he _will_ question, though, is BlackHat wanting to witness the initial infection live. With him. Not through a screen. 

That is not to imply BlackHat never gets his claws dirty with villainy. He dabbles and plays around with his own heinous acts that reinforces heroes hatred and abhorrence. Terrifies civilians out of days of sleep, settles the terror in their bones until they can no longer see safety in the world. Demands respect amongst fellow degenerates.

Holding the detonator in his hand, he wonders almost breathlessly if he'd ever be as effective as a villain. If this would ascend him to the level of turpitude to receive a proper praise from BlackHat. If he could ever ascend to the level of striking mind numbing terror in whoever dares step in his path. The image of Goldenheart cowering from him, or SolarPunk hesitating at the mere sight of him enters his mind; a sick thrill of merciless glee washes over him.

"Watch him carefully, Doctor." BlackHat says, stood proudly. His gloved claws folded neatly on top of his cane, tucked between his feet. One eye gazing disinterestedly down at the raised platform from their vantage point atop a nearby building. On it Scarlet Beast stood behind a podium, hands gripping the side a smile stretching his conventionally attractive features. "He feels comfortable there. Thinks this is where he belongs. Isn't it just pathetic?" A cruel grin dawns BlackHat's lips.

"They never seem to learn, Lord BlackHat." He says, looking from his crouched position. Eager to watch the following chaos. But he held himself back, he needed to follow BlackHat's plan. They needed to make a big show of this, to properly scare the public. Not that they really needed to do anything other than stand there to scare people. 

"Never." BlackHat agrees, eye squinting slightly with his grin as he stares down at the newer hero. The crowds chattered amongst themselves, phones already stuck up in the air to record. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" Scarlet Beast leans down towards the microphone. A few strands of lush, brown hair escaping from his perfectly brushed quiff and hanging down over his forehead. "As you know, a few weeks ago yet another pernicious attack in our lovely city. Lives were lost. They were loved ones, parents, children, siblings, friends. We understand your anger and grief, as we feel it too." His features suddenly turn very solemn as if he had just remembered to show the same emotions his words were giving. _Pernicious, big words for a small brain._

"We both urge for the affected to reach out to us for help in healing from this tragedy, and for you to help anyone you know who has lost someone." He continues on, but Flug's attention is pulled towards BlackHat as he speaks.

"Really, it was only a hundred people." He says, looking rather bored. "And that cumberworld couldn't even hold the weaponry correctly. Truly, a stain on villainy." 

"Embarrassing, Sir." He agrees absentmindedly. Watching Scarlet Beast lean closer to the microphone, seeing Goldenheart in his place. Fingers itching to press the button and shut up his useless rambling, but oh- the sweet irony of interrupting a speech of stopping villainy and helping victims by creating more victims and testing a newly created disease on them. A disease based on love, released on Valentine’s day nevertheless. 

"BlackHat, the seeming overload of the villains, is one of our main targets to help end this age of evil and corruption. He owns and maintains a business providing villains with weapons and lessons on how to be a more heinous criminal. His scientist pet, however, is our main target overall." He says, brows furrowed seriously and hands gripping each side of the podium. BlackHat scoffs beside him. 

"You? The main target? Insolent fools! They know not how easily I could rip this world to shreds, and how willing I am to." He seethes. Advertising his gaze from the angry demon he looks to the crowd, trying to estimate how many potential hosts were down there. A good handful at least, enough to spread hopefully. "I would enjoy seeing them even attempt to approach the gates of the manor."

Flug nods, the image of the security system ripping apart another hero mildly amusing. Of course, he would be the one to clean the blood from the mechanisms though. Scarlet Beast continues on with his uninteresting dribble, regurgitating the words and promises of heroes for years now. BlackHat seems to be growing bored as well, he raises his claws from his cane and the walking aid disappears into a cloud of smoke that reeks of burning wood and skin.

"Any moment now, Doctor. He's proven himself enough of a fopdoodle and a bore." He says, waving a gloved hand towards the crowd disinterestedly. Flug watches the movements of people within the crowd and Scarlet Beast's hands move off the podium, back on, off, and on again. Raising the detonator in his hand and pressing down on the small, red button.

With a small click he knows it's only a matter of seconds before all goes to hell. This public speech had been announced weeks beforehand. Which had given Flug plenty of time to slip out in the Outfitter—a small hand held device that changed his entire appearance from skin, to hair, to eyes—and both scouted the area for possible hiding spots, and then the following installation of the explosives.

He'd found a nice spot on top of a few lamp posts. The explosive was small and discrete enough to not be conspicuous. They all were small half circles secured to the top with a weak adhesive that wasn't meant to last terribly long and would probably fail when they exploded. 

From the roof the hissing wasn't audible. However, to the quietly mumbling crowd, (as crowds always seem to do, unable to stay silent for long when something was being said or someone they liked was speaking to them) it drowned out Scarlet Beast for a few moments before dying. The hero himself even seemed to notice the noise as his next words trip over each other and his eyebrows furrow. 

They suddenly explode with several loud bangs that take the protective covering off the top of the lamp posts. Large clouds of smoke seep from them, Thick and endless, they consume the open square quickly. If the explosions hadn't caused a panic, the moment people began to notice something was now in the air is certainly when a few people grew unnerved. The crowd broke apart, dispersing from the centered clump of people. Some ran immediately, though the explosives were placed in a wide area around the center point. Light yellow-green smoke fills the air, seeping and curling menacingly from the lamp posts. 

Scarlet Beast looks about almost frantically, evidently caught off guard. He jumped from the platform, rushing to citizens and directing them through the cloud of spores. Perhaps the quantity was over-kill for the initial infection, but the spores should travel through the air and hopefully find more hosts. 

"Will we present ourselves, Patrón?" He asks, staring down at the hero, grabbing people and flying them to clean air. With a warm sense of satisfaction, he knew it was already too late. "Announce what this is and thoroughly terrify the public?" Looking up at the eldritch being he shrinks back slightly when he notices he has stepped closer. BlackHat peers over the edge, appearing to enjoy the sight of the smoke spreading out into the streets, people covering their mouths as they run back and forth. 

"Very well. Come and tell the people what you've done to them." He grabs Flug by the back of his collar, hauling him up to his feet before the entire world lurches and spins around them. The scenery twists and seems to melt away before snapping back to clarity. His eyes burn and mind spins as he tries to make out his surroundings. BlackHat had moved them down onto the podium, taking the position Scarlet Beast had abandoned and tapping thrice on the microphone. 

There were enough people taking refuge in the buildings and shops around the plaza to hear. Scarlet Beast is still out and in the thick of the cloud. At least the target would be infected, with how heavy he was breathing. The speech would be for him anyways, as a messenger to the Hero Organization. 

"Listen closely, you ostentatious and insufferable worms, writhing helplessly. You'll only be told once." Flug looks out across the plaza, at terrified faces peeking from behind coverings and through windows. In these moments civilians never felt so human and like guinea pigs at the same time. It reminds him of his childhood, really. 

"As punishment for thinking you could live your pathetic lives, and fool about with one another," Overhead, the silhouette of Scarlet Beast lingers, the sun casts a white glow over his scarlet and white suit. "Since your little societies," he pauses to scowl at the words. "adores love so much, we've now given you love." Flug reached down into his pocket discreetly. "And all those nasty little things that come with it." 

Scarlet Beast's figure seems to just drop from the sky, swan diving down towards the platform. For a moment he wonders how fast the effects are in genetically advanced individuals. Though he knew better, it was a controlled fall. He was trying to get to them as fast as possible. 

It's only a few more seconds before Scarlet Beast is angling himself towards the pair of them. Flug’s shoulders tense as he tries to appear absorbed in what BlackHat was saying, keeping close attention to the approaching hero. When he is just a few feet away he yanks the gun from his pocket, points it and pulls the trigger. 

When the net hits him and tangles around him it sends him flying back. He hits the ground with a loud thud and a yell. He even rolls a little until he stops face-down in a large bundle of plasma rope and man-toddler. Looking over to BlackHat for permission of sorts, he takes the obvious glare in the hero’s direction as permission enough, and he jumps down from the raised platform. 

As he’s walking over he tucks the gun back into his coat pocket and brushes his fingers over his bag to make sure it was still placed properly on his head. Rolling over the hero with his sneaker he nearly snickers at the road burn across his forehead and distinct and new bend to his nose. Healers would patch him right up, but how satisfying to have caused this. Scarlet Beast squints up at him through the sunlight and hazy fog surrounding them. His eyes filled with pure hatred and annoyance, as if Flug were only a child tugging at his trousers with sticky and stained fingers. 

“Dr. Flug!” _Ah, there was the Hero-Voice._ “I suppose you were listening to the speech.” A cocky grin splits across his features. Irritation makes his own smile fall as he bends down and grabs a part of the rope by his throat. The hero tenses as his hand nears and his glower returns. 

“I wasn’t paying attention to it. We have better things to do.” He replies and begins to tug him towards the stage. Now, Flug never has been, and is not, a strong man. And he often finds himself winded simply by walking up the manor’s stairs too quickly. So to say that the act of pulling this one hundred and fifty pound ‘Zounderkite,’ as BlackHat liked to call them, even a few feet was a great strain on his neglected muscles. 

All the while he squirms the best he can and tries to speak but stops whenever he twists himself the wrong way and hurts himself. When they near the stage, BlackHat steps back from the podium, kneels down by the edge, grabs Scarlet Beast by his hair and lifts him up. With a yell he wiggles in a way that would probably be a thrown fist if he could move less than an earthworm could. 

“Whatever you’ve done now, BlackHat, it’s not going to-” He’s cut off as he’s shoved down to his knees, Flug moving behind him to hold the back of his neck and make sure he doesn’t move from his place. Looking out across the plaza again. He’s noticed a few civilians are peeking further out. Phones held up as they always do in these situations—not that it was a particularly bad thing, for their announcement it was great. The more it was posted around the more people would see. Just that it would be in no way his first reaction. 

“Listen closely, humans,” The word is spit from his lips with disgust. “You’re precious Red Monster will be used as an example.” Thinking better of, and finding it much too amusing to correct him, he, instead, doesn’t let the hero twist around to try and bite at one of them. “What you have just now breathed in, and is now in your air, is a newly developed disease. Made in our labs and now taking root in your lungs, it will effortlessly wipe this planet of your wretched species as you wallow in your own self misery and pain!” 

Scarlet Beast begins his struggle again, breathing heavily against the tightening knots in the plasma rope. Flug lets go of his neck to let him writhe miserably in place, to let the idea cement itself into his head. Maybe if the civilians saw their Superman-wanna-be so helpless it would squander any fight in them, make them pliant and easily scared. 

“There is no current cure, and will kill you within a matter of weeks.” His grin widens as Scarlet Beast’s breaths quickens and he throws himself back and tries to wiggle a hand free. Flug steps out of his way, nearly brushing against BlackHat’s overcoat. The demon gives him a sideways glance before sparing half a second’s look at the hero.

Looking up, Flug grimaces at the gathering silhouettes in the sky. Stopping his hand mid motion towards BlackHat, he instead indicated upwards. “Sir,” He says, turning to look at him. One razor thin pupil staring up. “We should be leaving now.” 

“Very well,” Tilting his head upwards his eye falls closed and a frown replaces his wicked grin. A gloved hand raises and after a moment to follow the shapes of three hovering human-like figures in the sky. Making his way to the other side of the stage he raises a claw to the air and tears a rip into the empty space. The edges of the portal appear like burnt paper, the inside swirling purple and black.

Flug watches him, feet hesitating in place for a moment before he steps up to the microphone and takes it in his hand. “Happy Valentine’s day, citizens of Atreno City. You like flowers, right?” That delicious sense of murderous glee slips into his voice. Rarely did he allow himself to be so publicly monstrous, preferring to keep himself in control than to look at the mess he’s brought and slip into that more... unhinged side of him. However, the swirling yellow and green tinge to the air made him so gleeful that it all worked to worry or care about standing in the thick of it. 

Stepping back at the podium he takes a moment to soak in the horrible hue to the air before turning and quickly joining BlackHat’s side. He gives him a perplexing look, one almost approaching pride, or approval. Scarlet Beast gives a frustrated yell and grunt as Flug steps through the portal. 

Lights flash and screams ring in his ears. Screams feral and tortured, perhaps not entirely his as the ground seems to shift beneath him and throw him forwards. He’s hurled out of the portal suddenly; landing on his hands and knees, head bowed. Closing his eyes he lets the hot, searing pain roll off him, sighing quietly as his skin begins to cool. And then he hears the tap of a cane against the ground beside him and he straightens up immediately.

“Excellent speech, Sir.” He says quickly, making up for not saying so immediately. BlackHat wasn’t one to hoard praise, seemed to quite despise it, but he would get angry if Flug didn’t at least try. “By the way Scarlet Beast squirmed he was terrified. They all are- or should be.” 

“Stand up, Doctor. You look pathetic down there.” He snaps, turning and ensuring the doors were locked, an odd thing to do as that was usually one of 5.0.5’s jobs. Not questioning it and, frankly, already focused on the pathetic comment, he scrambled to his feet. “I’ll be in my office. Don’t let the woman or bear disturb me. I expect you to return to work on the catalog immediately. Should milk every penny from these loiter sack villains while they’re still alive.”

“Of course, Lord BlackHat!” His following bow is more of throwing the top half of him forwards then backwards quickly without the bottom to follow than a bow. But he seemed subdued with the gesture all the same and turns away, cane disappearing into a sinister cloud as a claw reaches for the stair railing. After a moment of looking at him dumbly, he realizes that he wants to see him off and back to work. With a panicked little ‘oh!’ he turns and quickly makes his way back down to the lab. 

Before their departure he had deep cleaned a majority of the lab, what he hadn’t gotten 5.0.5 had finished up. The last thing he needed was for some unknown mix of chemicals and DNA to be on something and to get him or someone else sick. Demencia had probably the most resilient immune system he had studied, but one can never be too careful with her. 5.0.5 didn’t seem affected by any human- or bear- or even plant disease actually. 

And BlackHat, well… Yeah, BlackHat. He probably couldn’t even get sick. Didn’t have an immune system for it. Or any organs that even vaguely resemble humans. Oh, what he’d give to test a theory or two. Hauling up a tool box from the floor and dropping it onto the worktable with a rattle and bang, he sighs tiredly and rolls his eyes.

Tilting forwards he rests an elbow on the lid of the toolbox, and his hand on that. A moment’s rest and breather after engineering a completely new disease for a month without rest or a break took it out of you. Especially if your main source of- well, anything, was 5 Hour Energy drinks and Monsters. None of which tasted any good anymore. Nothing tastes like anything anymore actually. Well wait, when _did_ he eat last at all? And if his eyes closed, and he slipped off a little more than he intended, who could say?

Demencia, that’s who. Demencia in all her glory stood atop his perfectly fragile rib cage and grinning down at him with a smile wide enough to make his own cheeks hurt. 

“ _Tired?_ ” He coos, speaking Spanish. “ _You never do get outside, it must be tiring!_ ” 

“ _Get off!_ ” He grunts through two half filled lungs. “ _Why can't you wake me up like a normal person?!_ ” Pushing her foot off, he slides out from beneath her and wheezes. A gloved hand goes to rub at his sore chest. Demencia cackles above him, probing at him with the toes of her tennis shoes. 

“ _We’re villains! Fluggie! Villains! We’re never normal!_ ” She shrieks, playfully scandalized. 

“ _Yeah, well, I bet other subordinates at least wake to shouting, not being stood on!_ ” He snaps, sitting up and trying to figure out exactly where in the lab he was. 

“You yell at me when I scream you awake too!” She whines, stepping to the side as he reaches up and pulls himself to his feet with the table. He goes to rub at his eyes but is stopped by the glass of his goggles, confusing him a moment. 

“Pick a language. You’ll make me confused.” He groans and turns back to what he had been working on- oh yes, nothing. Blackhat would kill him if he didn’t start now. 

“Like how you forgot what apples were?” She teases, poking and jabbing at his rib cage. Jolting away from her fingers and swatting at her hands. 

“I didn’t- Stop! Demecia! I- I didn’t forget what they were! I just-” He protests but Demencia grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him.

“Three languages!” The shaking intensifies as she gives manic giggles. Flug smacks at her blindly and pushes her away, holding the side of his head as he stumbles back when let go. 

“Yes, yes. Make fun of me for a few slip ups! Now, what do you want?” He asks suspiciously, popping the lid of the tool box opening and pulling a few of his more loved tools out. 

“Me? _Want_ something?” Gasping, she presses a hand to her chest. Rolling his eyes and kneeling down to grab his numerous rolls of blueprints from beneath the table. 

“You never come down here unless you’re bored or want something.” Setting the blueprints on the table one by one, he realizes how nice a tidy work space was. 

“Yeah, well, The bear’s asleep and I’m hungry.” She says, hopping up onto the table and bending down to look him in the face. “Make me something, Pendejo.” 

“ _Pendejo-_ You have no respect for the people that keep you alive.” He grunts, shaking his head as he turns towards the lab door. Demencia’s shoes make a loud noise against the ground as she jumps down from the table. When she catches up to him she grabs his elbow and presses herself against his side. He doesn’t cringe away like he used to. 

“I’ll respect you when you plan out Blackie and I’s wedding.” She coos, fluttering her eyelashes up at him and pouting out her lip. 

“Firstly, I’m not indulging your obsession more than you trick me to. And secondly, you need to propose to him _and_ for him to accept the proposal.” He says, pushing her face away as they round the corner and make their way into the kitchen. Demencia stops clinging and stops in the doorway to pout. 

“You never let me have fun!” Flug opens the cabinet to search for something easy to make. Hopefully he could get away with cutting her up some fruits and putting it in a bowl. That would be fancy enough for her. 

“Lord BlackHat doesn’t even believe in love. The world would end before he ever even thought about it.” He says, locating an old Ramen cup in the back of the lowest cupboard. He shakes it slightly to listen for the vegetable shake around inside. Maybe she wouldn’t notice them if he mixed it up for her. Lord knows the woman probably needs some vegetables in such a protein heavy diet. 

“We can do that.” She says, hopping up and sitting on the rickety dinner table no one really ate at. Feet swing back and forth as she watches Flug fill the cup up with water. “We can definitely do that.”

“Not free of charge.” He chuckles, placing the cup into the old microwave he had taken up from the lab last month. 

“Charge who?” He taps in the time and leans back against the counter near the microwave. 

“Someone, I’m sure. Probably the whole of humanity. Hand over _all_ the money for some cure or life saver that won’t work and then he’ll laugh in their dying faces.” He shrugs. Demencia leans back and sighs dreamily.

“He would, wouldn’t he?” She coos up towards the ceiling. Shaking his head he glances back at the timer. 

“I’d probably be the one doing all the work. Praise me.” He grunts, stepping forwards and popping the door open when he notices the top of the cup bubbling out over the rim.

“Praise be the nerd!” She mocks in a scratchy, high voice. “Oh, wimpy and weak! We praise you and lick your feet!” 

“What is wrong with you?” He groans as he peels the top off and stirs the noodles with a fork. 

“Something. Considering I can stand on walls.” She replies, feet still kicking as Flug sets the noodle on the table, ripping open the small spice packet and dumping it in.

“There. Enjoy.” He gives a little wave with his hand towards the food. Demencia hops from the table, gives it one hard look before turning and walking towards the door. “You brat! Eat it!”

“You haven’t eaten in days! You eat it!” She calls back, speeding up in her pace. His features screw up in annoyance.

“Don’t trick me into taking care of myself!” He rushes to the door frame, leaning out to call after her. “I’ll pour it out!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a more uplifting note than the beginning note, I want to give a huge, stupendous, brilliant, love filled shout out to tableflipapocalypse! She's been a major help in the development and plotting for this AU. She's absolutely brilliant in helping me with the actual disease and going deeper into character's motives and pasts than I normally delve into. I'm so excited to show you all what we've been scheming over for months now! Hopefully I can do our ideas and plans some justice!! On a side note, her art is GORGEOUS!! To see some of her stunning art, follow her over on Tumblr under the same handle!  
> LOVE YOU B!!
> 
> Additionally, a blog has been created to create a central hub for all information regarding this AU. If you're interested it's under the handle @of-pride-and-pestiferous-pathos


	2. Conglomerating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BlackHat is invited to a party in celebration of the release, Flug's forced to tag along as well.  
> The heroes meet up to discuss game plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another thanks to Tableflipapocalypse for all the help editing. My take away lesson, i suck at keeping tense 😂

Flug takes another mouthful of noodles before slotting the thick anatomy book back into its place on his puny bookshelf. Bag scrunched up awkwardly above his nose to avoid the broth. By now, he had made progress on the blueprints of the remaining devices, and was about to start on the first one.

The manor had settled back into its usual, albeit slightly eerie, silence. A calm before whatever storm would explode from one of them. It was a nice, monotonous routine—as monotonous as a villain’s routine could become— which was easy to fall into after a couple of years. He lives in less fear than he probably should, living with BlackHat. Though, he still did put the fear of whatever god was out there in him whenever he even so much as looked at him. Just- less so after he sort of realized he _wasn’t_ going to kill him every time he breathed. 

He tinkers all through the night, flitting back and forth between projects whenever inspiration hits, or he finds the perfect tool for that one screw on that one item. The analog clock covered in science puns sits on the wall, utterly ignored for hours as the time ticks on. 

It isn't until his hands become shaker and he finds himself trying to work with his eyes closing constantly that he finally steps back from his work. Carefully, he pulls his goggles up and off his head, setting them on the worktable before slipping his bag off. A muffled yawn manages to escape him, one that has his eyes watering.

“What time is it?” Stretching his arms behind his back as he cranes his head to look at the clock. Six fifty in the morning. He’ll need to wake 5.0.5 soon for breakfast. A nap can come after feeding his fluff ball and Demencia. And, of course, his daily meeting with Lord BlackHat. 

With a sighing he rubs at his eyes and heads towards his room, slipping inside and then to the attached bathroom. He stops at the sink and turns on the cold water, letting it pool in his cupped palms. The water stings against the skin of his palms. He rubs the water into his face, scrubbing at his cheeks and forehead to dispel any drowsiness for the time being. Once satisfied, he reaches blindly forward to turn the water off before lifting his head. The water rolls down his face and drips from his nose and chin. 

Groping for the towel hung on the bathroom door he quickly presses it to his face and groans into the material. God, he was exhausted. Looking up he catches himself in the mirror, his features screw up in their usual disdain. It wasn't the burn scars that stretched across the entirety of the left side of his face. No, he had gotten used to those years ago. He caused those and he was fine with it. It was his stupid freckles. The last thing that tied him to _fucking_ heroes. 

He turns from the mirror sharply and returns to the lab. Putting his bag and goggles back on before heading out. Heading up to 5.0.5's room first he taps on the door as he steps inside. He's still asleep, toys and plushies piled up meticulously around him, Sammy the Salmon tucked nice and neat in his arms. 

"Morning, fluff ball!" He says, running his fingers through his fur. They'd need to sit down and brush it out soon, before it got too tangled. _Add it to the to-do list_. 5.0.5's ears perk up as he wakes. 

He sits up and stretches. Satisfied that he's actually awake, Flug makes his way out of the room and heads down to Demencia's 'room'. By the time he reaches it, HatBot-Ler is opening the metal flooring. He stops on the platform near where she'll ascend to. 

Her laughter grows louder as it draws nearer, like an engine that refused to start. The platform reaches the top and she squirms in her restraints. Two metal clasps open and she drops down to her feet. Demencia gives a little wobble, grin splitting her face and tongue stuck between her teeth. 

"5.0.5's already in the kitchen, by the sounds of it." He says before turning away and starting towards the door. Demencia gives another giggle before launching herself towards him. The two go tumbling down the short stairs leading up to the platform. 

"Demencia!" He groans and squirms beneath her. Really, he should stop turning his back to her if he’s going to end up on the ground every time. She was the worst kind of predatory animal, predictable, and he kept falling for it. “I’ll disable your social media!”

“ _You son of a thousand whores!_ ” She shrieks in Spanish, sitting up and looking at him as though he’d just committed blasphemy against Lord BlackHat himself. “ _I hope a chicken pecks your dick!_ How will I keep up with the hero dramas and yearn for Blackie?! Make sure Penumbra stays the hell of the island?!” 

“Calm down! Just get off me already!” He shoves her off, struggling to his feet and rubbing at his sore lower back. Demencia glares at him from the floor, arms still bound in her straight jacket. Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I won’t do it, Demencia. Get up and get dressed.”

“Whatever, Nerd!” She hops back onto her feet and gives him a good kick to the shin before running off. Following after her, albeit much slower, he barely gets two steps down before the world seems to shatter around him. It twists in an odd way and pulsates like a beating heart, the ominous groaning rumbling to go with it. 

It doesn’t last but a few seconds, long enough for him to begin to register something is wrong. Everything flashes tremendously and painfully, causing his head to feel as though it were spinning. Suddenly, he’s simply dropped into BlackHat’s office. The world stationary as it’s ever been, with no brilliant flashes of light, or odd pulsations in his surroundings. He must have missed the usual time for meeting with him. This is the kinder teleportation at least. 

“Good morning, Lord BlackHat.” He greets, checking his bag was still on properly. The office is dark, and the air chilly and oppressively humid simultaneously. 

"Took you long enough, Slys." BlackHat’s voice radiates from the darker corners of the office. Soft crimson light filters through the open curtain. Basking what was visible of the office in a myriad of reds and blacks. Flug focuses his eyes carefully on the grand chair, turned away. Just as he’s about to kneel, BlackHat’s voice speaks again, the sound of it drifting down from above and beneath him, everywhere at once. “Don’t bother kneeling. This isn’t nearly important enough for that.”

“I apologize for my tardiness, my Lord.” He tries, hoping to avoid any oncoming punishment. Usually, he was very careful not to run over the time BlackHat wanted him in his office. 

“Do you remember Nokles?” He asks from somewhere in the room. Flug tries in vain to subtly peak past the chair and see if he was even in it. He thinks for a moment, recalling the name.

“Duke Nokles? The, uh, necromancing imp?” 

Duke Nokles was a long time buyer and loyal customer. To flaunt his wealth he often held exclusive parties dedicated to other villains. BlackHat being the pinnacle of their food chain was always invited. And as a villain who arrived without a subordinate would appear unable to control them or properly respected by them, Flug was the one who always had to go with him. 

“Yes. The necromancer.” Suddenly BlackHat’s voice is behind him. Two claws roughly turn him around, and just as roughly fix his lab coat which had been slipping from a shoulder from his and Demencia’s tussle. Choking down a surprised gasp, he turns his head to look up at him. 

“Has- Has something happened to him?” He tries to ignore his gloved hands as they finish straightening out his coat. 

“Unfortunately, no. He’s hosting another party, in honor of the release yesterday.” Brushing past him he walks to his desk, picks up a thin envelope and slips a small square of yellowed paper from it. The writing was in thin, shaky red ink that Duke Nokles always wrote in. The contents were always the same, word for word. 

Lesser demons often received a complimentary ticket that showed they were actually invited. But with BlackHat's prestige and power, such a thing would be more insulting than a formality. A societal offence such as snubbing an event in his honor would be thoroughly gossiped about, as well. Leading to other complications, such as demons conjuring up ideas and deciding to put them to the test. Which meant that BlackHat would have to go,and by extension Flug. This was worse than any tardy punishment. 

“Oh,” He could feel himself deflate on the inside. “I-It’s awfully soon, isn’t it? I mean- It just happened, Patrón. He can’t expect to hold a party so soon-” As he speaks he notices a slight tension pulling at BlackHat’s shoulders. Stopping himself before he begins to ramble on he bites the inside of his cheek and folds his hands behind himself politely. BlackHat’s disinterested gaze rises to meet his. Instinctively, he drops his own. 

“It’s in a week's time. Starting at the first stroke of midnight and ending at the witching hour. As he always does.” Meekly, Flug nods along as he speaks. The small square of parchment slips from his fingers and downwards, crumbling into ash as it falls.

“Of course, silly of me to think otherwise.” Mumbling, he stares as the ashes disappear into the air--- leaving the other documents alone. For a few moments afterwards a thick silence pervades the room, suffocating him, and tightening in his throat. He thinks he should be working if he wants to avoid being yelled at, but unless dismissed he won’t dare move.

“Dress nicely, Doctor.” BlackHat says monotonously. If he focused hard enough, he could almost feel his gaze burning into the top of his head. “Dismissed.” Looking up he clenches his fists by his sides, and nods. Quickly, he turns, and hurries towards and out the door. It clicks closed calmly behind him.

Down the hall the whirl of the vacuum, and the gentle thumps of large paws against the floor lumber with a comfortable familiarity. As he turns away from the noise and makes his way back downstairs, he wishes he could stop and check up on 5.0.5. But with little time to dawdle any further, he clumsily skips steps downwards and returns to the lab.

* * *

The suit fit well. Unlike how his older suits had that had swallowed him whole in high school. It fits the same as it had a few years ago, but being a windlestraw person who’s gone virtually unchanged in that time does that. Tying the bow tie never got easier though. Flug was a man of many talents, but knots were not one of them, evidently. 

It was a little sideways and perhaps not as tight as it needed to be, but unless one paid too close attention to it, it shouldn’t be noticeable. Standing from where he had been sitting on his cryogenic bed, he brushed off his trousers and made his way towards the door. Grabbing his suit jacket and slipping it on, Flug made himself busy buttoning up the two buttons as he made his way up to the entrance. 

Stopping in front of the front doors, he took a moment to fret with his bag and goggles. A door upstairs clicks open followed by the sound of BlackHat’s expensive shoes. Pausing, he turns to look up at the top of the staircase, almost surprised to not see Demencia hanging off his arm and fawning over him. Those soap operas really _were_ captivating enough for her, it seemed. He wore very much the same as he always does when conducting business.

Parties or galas, he tends to say mostly to himself on the rides to and from such events, are nothing more than marketing yourself and your business to a room of rats. Although, there was always some special pop when attending parties in his own honor. 

Flug would call it peacocking of sorts if he wasn’t already, perhaps, _more_ important than the host most of the time. Tonight he donned a brilliant garnet red cape that draped down elegantly onto the ground behind him. The collar w as lined with white Russian lynx fur, decorated with delicate black spots. Clasped closed with a golden clasp of intricate swirling patterns nearly appearing like eyes. He looked… _very professional._

The cape broadened his shoulders, and gave him the illusion of being taller. As well as making the already thick air of superiority palpable. Looking away, embarrassed, he peers down the hall. 

5.0.5 must be in his room as well. No distractions to delay their departure, then. Shame.

"You're here before me for once." BlackHat says halfway down the stairs. Flug gives a little jump at the sound of his voice and nods, flustered. 

"Yes, Jefe, I don't want to delay the celebration." He says, opening the door as BlackHat reaches the bottom of the stairs. The demon passes him without a second glance and he hurries to lock the door and catch up.

"I thought you hated these, Doctor." He says, walking down the long path towards the road. Hatbot-Sentinel and the limo are waiting just behind the gate, the engine in a low purr. 

"Well- I-I do tend to not enjoy the more social aspect of these… It's in your honor however, Sir. I don- I don't want to ma-make the night about myself." He says, speeding up and passing him, to unlock and open the gate. When he turns back he expects to see BlackHat brush past him again, but he's stood still and frowning at him.

"You made the disease." He says, and for a moment Flug is at a loss for an answer. Yes, he _is_ the one who made the disease- and, set up everything for the release. But he wasn't expecting to be so openly recognized like that. No party would be held in his name. He simply wasn't as important, or held the same name as the company.

Flug must have taken too much time to be surprised because BlackHat shook his head and walked past. Closing the gate behind himself he listened to it lock into place before turning and stepping into the limo. BlackHat had already found his usual spot and was relaxing into it. Flug closed the door and dropped into the seat closest to it. With a small lurch the car starts into motion down the street, the street lights flickering out in front of them completely, before sputtering back on once they pass. He watches the lights die out in front of them, until he notices BlackHat shifting in his seat. 

“Your tie.” He says.

Flug looks down at it. Was the color off? He wouldn’t be surprised if he had been stupid enough to some how pick a color that would scandalize demons. In one way or another he always managed to fuck things up with demon etiquette.

“Come here.” Flug hesitates, hands gripping the edge of his seat. “Come.” He says again, motioning him over sharply. 

Awkwardly, he half stands from his seat and makes his way over to the one beside him. Immediately his claws come up towards his throat, Flug steels himself and draws in a breath, closing his eyes. When he only feels a small tug near his collar, they open again. BlackHat has his trademark frown, and creased eyebrows. His claws working to undo the poor knot of his bow tie. Moving ever so slightly closer, his attention is solely focused on the bow tie. Breath quietly escapes him in flustered relief. 

“It’s all social, Doctor.” Diligent talons work and fold the fabric into a knot. Speedy, and efficient. Blinking owlishly in confusion he stares at Blackhat, grateful for his bag suddenly.

“W-what- What is, Sir?” BlackHat glances to his face, and Flug nearly jolts back in his seat. 

“The galas, parties, events. It’s all awfully social.” Finishing the knot, he took a moment to adjust it so it sat perfectly straight. Leaning back into the cushions of the seat, one talon came up and subtly adjusted his monocle. “These nights must be awful for you, then. Talking to so many clients, and being jostled about.”

Before Flug could try and defend himself—not that he actually _liked_ the parties and such, really he just didn’t want BlackHat to go around thinking he was ungrateful or something of that nature—the car pulled to a stop. Glancing out the window he felt himself paling at the sight of Duke Nokles’ remote manor. With still wobbly knees he stood from the seat and opened the door, allowing BlackHat out first and following him. As they step out, they’re immediately met with Duke Nokles’ most recent head subordinate, Szőke. A nice guy, if not, a little odd with picking conversation topics. 

“Welcome, Lord BlackHat. Doctor.” A small smile, barely a twitch of the lips in his direction. 

“My master is ever so eager to speak with you. He’s perhaps done some of your boasting for you about your malady. Please, allow me to walk you to the ballroom.” 

He gives a deep bow, left arm crossed over his stomach. As he rises, BlackHat gave the slightest of nods. With a smile that he, and the other minions coined as the, _‘Please_ Don't Bite My head Off For Fun’ smile, he motions towards the manor with one arm before turning and heading towards the front entrance.

Doors propped open and the sound of laughter and speech heard throughout grew in volume as they drew closer. They step through the doors, as another servant stepped forwards and offered to take BlackHat’s cape for him. Ignoring them, he brushed past, and continued towards the ballroom, walking in front of Szőke. Flug waved to the servant politely as he passed.

The ball room was magnificent as always. Large open space to mingle in, and to sway to soft, classical music being plucked out by four Fair Folk at the furthest back wall. Tables on each vertical wall were covered in plates and food, drinks and cups. The chandelier cast a subtle lilac glow over the entire room. 

“Ah! Lord BlackHat! Wretched as always! We were just talking about your new world ender!” 

Duke Nokles says, nearly gargling around his words, and quickly breaking away from the small group of demons he had been conversing with to stand before BlackHat. The Duke is a pyknic man, who’s skin wasn’t the usual red or leathery, but a sickly green-yellow and always somehow slick with sweat. He stared down at the short imp, raising a brow indifferently. 

“I see you’ve started without me.” Is his reply. 

Flug stops just a step behind BlackHat, peering out in the crowd of villains for any of the other minions he had spoken to last. They had been discussing the risks and logistics of time travel and control, and he would rather resume _that_ topic than mingle with demons.

“I see you’ve brought the Doctor as well.” The Duke glanced around BlackHat’s shoulder to give Flug a waggish grin. “You must be very proud to have such a talented slave.” BlackHat, who appeared unamused with the same conversation that was always repeated at _every_ event, waved his words off. 

“Yes, yes. _Very_. Now, Doctor?" Blackhat peered down at him expectantly. Flug stared back for a moment before inhaling sharply, and nodding. 

"Yes! Of course, My lord. I'll return promptly." 

Turning to face the rest of the room, he could feel his own discomfort and unease solidify in his stomach cavity. 

_Into the lion’s den, I go_. 

Despite how extravagant and glamorous everything and _everyone_ in the room was, they were all still depraved monsters who took a great deal of pleasure in tormenting ‘BlackHat’s little toy.’ He just had to ignore them the best he could.

Anxiously adjusting the front of his jacket, he started towards the large set of confectionery tables pressed against the back wall—covered in beautiful foods, and with different glasses of alcohol displayed. All at once, several pairs of eyes turned to look at him. As if sensing his arrival, or even his discomfort, they tracked his movement across the room. Smiling faces he could recall, but not name confidently. 

Murmuring his ‘demonic etiquette lessons’ from previous gatherings to himself, Flug hurried his steps. The rules of demonic propriety were difficult to remember, exceptions to rules, exceptions to those exceptions. One gesture could either mean ‘I want to bed you’ or ‘I want to kill you, and string your small intestine up on my balcony’, depending on the context. These gatherings were always like one huge, college final that Flug, unfortunately, felt like he had only taken introductory classes for. In a foreign language. 

He reached the table and looked it over carefully. To the left were chalices, wine glasses, martinis, and champagne flutes. Each filled practically to the brim with their own respected alcohol. Some, laced with different poisons for the added flavor; all labeled appropriately. Something he was grateful for, considering the number of times his first year as head scientist, where BlackHat would pluck glasses from his hands and replace them with another. 

The snacks, though, were calling his name. 

Cubes of various cheeses, generous slices of a rich blackout cake. Salted caramel pie, beside that, already missing a slice or two. Cakes, pies, brownies, anything made of sugar and any variation that was able to be ‘enhanced’ with a bit of botulinum or amatoxin, piled high and covering every square inch of the table. 

Right now, he _should've_ _been_ focusing on grabbing two wine glasses—one with arsenic the other without—and promptly returning to BlackHat’s side. Best to avoid tempting the other demons to come around and ‘play’ with him. 

But… _One_ cheese cube couldn’t hurt. At least, to hold him off until dinner.

Picking up one by the toothpick, he brought it under his bag. It practically melted in his mouth. A quiet hum vibrated on his lips as he tucked the toothpick into his suit pocket. However, picking up two wine glasses, he could already feel the room of eyes focusing on him. Dread was sour on the back of his throat as he forced himself to recall every posture lesson BlackHat barked at him, before turning around. 

“You must be starving, Dear,” A woman near his left tittered, swooping in quickly and placing a hand on the crook of his arm. A jolt of surprise passed through him, watching with mild horror as the wine shivered near the brim of the glass for a moment. Turning towards her so that the woman's hand slipped from his arm, Flug nearly cowered away from her _height_ alone, but those two flaming horns (she could easily impale him with) didn't help.

“I’ll hold out until supper. No need spoiling it.” He reassured, stealing a glance towards where BlackHat was still speaking with Duke Nokles and Miss Chevious. Or rather, not _speaking_ , but listening in a rather blasé manner. 

_Sir, please..._

“Oh, but no need going _hungry_ for another hour or so!” Another demon chipped in, hovering inches away from his shoulder. Flug choked down a surprised noise, and turned to face him. 

“Why not have something small..?”

“Here, you like cheese?” 

A third held out a cube on a toothpick.

 _Really_ . For as little as he _did_ know, he knew better than to ever take _anything_ from any demon’s hands (save for very few exceptions). However, that left him in a bind. Saying any kind of outright rejection to an _offering_ , was akin to spitting in someone’s face. 

_I want to go home_ …

“I’m grateful, _really_ , but I should be returning to my Lord.” 

Looking towards Blackhat again, he wished he would come over and _save_ him. He probably wouldn’t. BlackHat probably enjoyed watching him squirm in these situations, too. 

“—no need to disappoint the guest of honor, for the evening.” 

Attempting to show that he wanted to leave, Flug tried practically everything he _could_ to convey that. His shoulders tense, elbows dug into his sides, averting his gaze, and leaning further away. 

This only seemed to encourage them _more_ , for some reason.

The first demon picked up a small plate, and delicately set a brownie on it. The second took it from her hands rather briskly, as if it were a switchblade, and set more cheese on it. Flug could feel embarrassment burn his skin as he watched them. 

“ _Eat_.” 

Another timbered lowly, running their claw across his shoulders. Flug took a step away in shock, staring at the new demon in confusion. No other demon currently taunting him seemed _fazed_ by the display of indecorum. 

“No, no, I-I couldn’t.”

At this rate _he’d_ be skinned for lack of decorum, or, for insulting someone while running away, at least. Not the way he had wanted to die, but he wouldn’t be surprised by it. Dying at a party would probably make his _headstone_ a little more interesting. If Goldenheart ever saw it, he might even have an ounce of respect for him. 

“Here, it couldn’t _hurt_.” 

The second moved the plate in front of him for him to take. 

“Nothing like a bit of demonic delicacies to get you ready to eat more.

What was left of his bleeding eyes glimmered with mischief, and poorly muted glee. 

“M-my… -My hands are full!” Words stuck between his teeth and his throat before they solidified, and finally, he managed to spit them out. However, the more he tried to dismiss himself, the more people seemed to be paying attention to him. “I’ll grab one later. The Lord must be p-parched by now, I need to go make up for my tardiness.” 

“Hold two in one hand,” another directed, words barely concealing a malignant giggle as they took a glass from his hand. They carefully positioned his hand to hold both glasses, fingers grazing his forearm needlessly, and slipping beneath the fabric of his sleeve. Thankfully, the glove extended far enough for no actual contact to be made—something they seemed mildly disappointed by. 

“ _Really-_ ” Flug started, glancing anxiously at the man holding the plate. 

“Have none of you been in _public_ before? A shameful display of _wanton_ _neediness_.” BlackHat scoffed. Only Flug seemed surprised by his sudden appearance; the others idly applying sportive grins, and calm looks.

“You starve the man! There's no need in getting all _crass_ over a bit of food.”

BlackHat took his glass from Flug’s fingers, careful to not make contact. His scowl deepened at the accusation. The ire he held for his associates became more and more apparent with every gathering. 

“If anything, he starves _himself_ . He can wait until dinner. _You_ , however, will be unable to attend if this behavior persists.” 

The threat was nothing to be giggled at, considering the track record Blackhat had for fratricide. Several other demons who violated punctiliousness in the past, never left the parties they came so boastful and lavished for. Despite this, the first woman snickered and curtsied, before heading towards a smaller group who burst into laughter.

BlackHat turned away, and began to head back around towards Miss Chevious and Duke Nokles. Flug went to follow after him, but before he'd even taken half a step, a claw swiped up his lower back purposefully. _Suggestively_.

He barely had any time to flinch or process his shock, before BlackHat was stepping past him, and lunging at whoever just stepped out of line. Claws wrapped around the offensor's throat, lifting him effortlessly into the air. Flug could feel himself cringing away in abject horror at the scene. 

They had been on a good 'no violence streak' for the past couple of months. 

He'd managed to either get away fast enough to _not_ end up causing a fuss—Or, in lue of _outright_ _murder_ —tempered BlackHat’s rage with a change of subject, or a boring table conversation about Pyschics. What was he supposed to do here? Tell him to stop? BlackHat would probably laugh in his face if he tried that. Of course, that is assuming he could muster up the courage to even open his mouth to do so. 

BlackHat spoke quietly, in gnashing tongues to the other demon. The hand constricting the second man's throat garbled some of his words, but even strung up, the second demon responded through an unapologetic grin. Whatever he said flared BlackHat’s temper to an apex, and his free hand rounded upwards up to grab the top of the man's head. Wanting to avoid looking at the oncoming gore, Flug discreetly looked away, and grabbed BlackHat’s wine glass from where it had been suspended in the air. 

The wet crunch of his skull was a surprisingly loud noise. The squelch it made, jarring, as he stared up at an extravagant painting on the wall. The frame was coated in gold leaf, eyes of the figure a brilliant red that seemed to almost glow. It was hardly a distraction. The body hitting the ground was _just_ as loud.

Turning back around he looked down at the aftermath, the brain matter, and blood creeping across the marble floor. The way his head caved inwards from his forehead. Skull fragments speckling the floor like glitter. _Oh_ , how he wanted to scrape up the bits and take them home to test. Demonic blood _had_ to be good for some of his ideas.

BlackHat took his glass silently, still mindful to avoid any brush of stray fingers, or bump of an elbow as he walked past. Flug turned and followed him for a second time, not feeling terribly sorry for the discorperated demon. Half suppressed giggling, and murmured jabs at the demon passed through the room. The mood, oddly enough, seemed _lighter_ after the spectacle. 

“I’ll have someone clean it up,” The Duke chuckled whole-heartedly when BlackHat came to a stop in front of him, once again. Miss Chevious, in all her beauty and grace, tittered quietly at the statement. 

“Yes. After everyone has a chance to gawk at it properly.” 

She was a desirable woman. Skin a pulchritudinous lilac, akin to lavender. Tonight most of her outfit was all elegant whites and golds. Hair, the color of black cherries, pulled into a coiled bun at the back of her head; jewelry of gold and rubies pinned precariously into place on her clothes, in her coiffure, and at the curl around her horns. 

"The people love a bit of impromptu performance. Makes them jolly enough to actually eat," the Duke waived, fumbling with his pocket watch. It kept slipping out of his vest pocket periodically, and the vest, itself, bulged and folded awkwardly around the curvature of his stomach. 

"I see _societal_ _norms_ are abandoned in your residence," BlackHat chided, furrowing his brows, and bringing his cup to his lips. Despite the obvious dig, and the flash of wild rage in the Lord's eyes, the other man simply tucked his pocket watch into a different pocket. 

"You put them in their place, better than _I_ . Best _you_ do it. He is your toy." 

The Duke huffed through a grin, finally managing to affix the watch in place. His teeth were too small for his mouth, and spaced oddly. Sparing a glance over at Flug to rub the words in, his smile curled nastily at the corners of his mouth. Flug smartly averted his gaze, staring down into his glass, and swirling it around slowly. Annoyance bit sharply on his tongue.

 _I forgot_ _to_ _grab_ _a_ _straw_...

“—And _I_ am your guest of honor. I don’t want to be accosted, when _you’re_ _supposed_ _to_ _be_ in charge of these scobberlotchers.” 

BlackHat stared down at him, brow raising a fraction when the man failed to respond. He simply blinked the comment off, and turned towards Miss Chevious. A near silent snort puffed from BlackHat's lingering sneer, and he closed his eye slightly to enjoy his drink better. Victorious, yet again.

“What were you saying earlier, Madam Chevious..?” He asks, pocket watch threatening to leap from his pocket once more. Had he not been called a _‘toy’_ , perhaps Flug would have commented on it. But really, he would _much_ rather enjoy watching that beautiful, expensive clock hit the ground. 

“Throwing me under the bus now?” She chuckles well-humoredly. “But, I was curious about the specifics of our new plague. I wanted to hear it straight from the mind behind it- No offense, Lord BlackHat.” With a shake of his head, the notion of any possible offense is dismissed.

“The smoke reveal was fun, by the way. Loved the whole theatrics of it!”

“--I-It was the easiest way to get the disease airborne!” Flug blurts, unsure if he should actually engage in the conversation. 

She had indicated that she wanted to speak to him on the topic, but, that never really meant people wanted to talk to _him._

More _at_ him, while BlackHat answered. 

“Then it’s a respiratory disease?” 

Striking mint, green eyes bore into his own, even through the lenses of the goggles. For a moment or two, he wonders if she was actually capable of seeing through the paper and glass. 

“Yes! A-actually. It, uhm…” 

He can see the mounting annoyance in the Duke’s eyes as he watches him speak. That poorly concealed vexation in his eyes has Flug floundering beneath his stare. He looked away in hopes of saving himself from facing his thinly veiled anger.

“I sp-spliced together t-the, uh, DNA of-” 

“Oh, it’s time for dinner!” The Duke commented, clumsily catching the pocket watch as it slipped—popping it open to reveal the time, accidentally. The second hand spun endlessly, hour hand ticking backwards every few seconds, while the minute seeming stuck in place on twelve. Still, he seemed to be able to tell the time. Flug, unable to decipher the clock, looked to BlackHat.

Something was _off_ by the way his boss privately scrutinized the clock pieces—brows crinkled and his eye narrowed, claws tightening around the bottom of his glass. It probably wasn't time yet. He wouldn't put it past the Lord. 

Yet another lesson to _not speak when not directly addressed_. 

"We'll be seated _before_ the rest of these…" Pausing for half a moment, the Duke nodded towards the waiting crowd, then to BlackHat. "...- _Hooligans_." 

Turning away, his feet make funny little smacking noises against the polished marble floor. Akin to penguin flippers on especially wet wooden flooring. Briefly, Flug hoped he would trip.

He's mindful to stay behind BlackHat as they walk. Hands held behind his back as servants ought to, and head hung low. Whatever his social role in these parties were, it couldn't be higher than a personal monkey with a few tambourines, or marginally lower than literal soul-sucked slaves. Better to play doormat, than Boo-Boo the Fool. 

The dining room is just as extravagant as the ball room. Longer than it was wide, and with a similar ethereal glow cast over the entire room. A beautifully carved wooden table stretched across most of the room, chairs spaced evenly apart. One _particularly,_ ornate throne at each end of the table. The furthest one was beneath the mounted head of a horrific creature; something that looked like a demon's idea of a deer. 

BlackHat didn't stop, or slow, his stride towards the back of the room—passing by Miss Chevious, and the Duke silently. Flug kept his own pace, even passing by the two other demons. The Duke stopped at the end seat closest to the door, his displeasure heavy in the air, and waited off to the side of the placement with slight impatience.

BlackHat slipped gracefully into the seat of honor. Suave, and sophisticated as ever. The brim of his top hat cast a shadow down his face, eye peering out from beneath it, and across the table. Gloved claws curled carefully at the ends of the arms of his chair-- tinged a deep maroon at the very tips of his talons, soft with polish. 

Standing behind his own chair, Flug watched the way the Duke collapsed back into his seat. Huffing, and fanning the rolls of his neck. Luckily, he wasn't as easy to see this far away. Miss Chevious took her own seat to the right of BlackHat. Nails tapping rhythmically on the wood of the table as she watched the door. Waiting for the floodgates to open to the general fanfare and watch them all file in, just as rambunctious as ever. 

A moment or two after everyone had settled down, a human stepped into the room. They were dressed in simple browns and grays, an apron around their waist stained with odd smears of color. Eyes closed, and face serene, as if they were simply asleep on their feet. 

Demons trailed in after them, chatting amongst each other for the noise of it as they took their seats. Flug watched some pull chairs out for others, and some simply drop into their seats, but he didn’t move to take his own just yet.

Instead, he waited until more humans stepped into the room, six, exactly. Two with golden trays precariously balanced on their arms, one holding two tall, glass bottles, and another balancing several gold and silver chalices. They started at the head of the table, working their way back towards the double doors. 

The humans with _no_ trays came to Flug directly, and passed off two chalices, one for himself and the other for BlackHat. He dipped his head as he ought to, and allowed the two cups to be filled half way. BlackHat’s with a thick, vicious liquid that smelled of almonds, copper, and peaches, and his own goblet, with a simple, red wine. The two handservents continued on to serve Miss Chevious. Setting her chalice on the table, and pouring it for her. Their movements were robotic and lazy, in the way of not needing thought to carry an action. But not _once_ did any of their faces twitch, or did a single eye peek open to check where they were walking. 

Flug set the chalices in their appropriate spots on the tables, folding his hands awkwardly in front of himself. The general noise of the room dialed down to a low murmur as the drinks were served. One patron grabbed one of the humans by the apron, and said something in a demonic tongue Blackhat had _definitely_ never spoken in front of Flug before. They didn't seem to acknowledge the demon until the human was pulled on again, and the garment was nearly tugged from their hips. 

Two eyes popped open, and their head turned towards them. From a distance, their eyes seemed to be either empty sockets, or raw flesh that no longer bled. Hands quickly, and diligently fixed the apron as open, empty eyes stared in the general direction of where they had been grabbed. The demon sneered something, looking across the table to a feminine Dryad tittering merrily. With no further action, the human moved to catch up with their partner to pour another drink. 

Gratitude had a strange, nasty taste on his tongue as it fully registered what had happened to them. If a human became desperate enough to sell their soul, the demon they were entrusted to could opt to either elect they keep their autonomy, or take that from them,instead—programming them to menial tasks. 

Such as pouring drinks. 

The actions removed any independent thought: complex analysis, wants, desires- all that was left was a shell of what had been. Husks who could do one chore for the rest of their lives. As they took their leave, Flug finally took his own seat, contemplating what his life would have been if he had crashed into _this_ place instead of the manor. 

Glancing up at a sudden movement in the corner of his eye, he caught an incubus leering. Biting his lip on one side, and winking. He had to be the one to look away first, almost abashedly. He knew he shouldn't feed into the behavior. They loved riling him up, pressing buttons and seeing how much they could get away with in one evening. What he couldn't understand, however, was why _him_? BlackHat had had scientists before, and when asked he said they seemed rather bored by his last one. 

"Ladies and heathens," Duke Nokles begins, pressing his palms against the table, and standing. 

"-...I want to thank you all for coming. And extend a _special_ thanks to our three guests of honor." 

Indicating towards the opposite side of the table with a guiding hand, The Duke made a grand gesture of the announcement through a series of flourished movements, and a cheesy grin. Polite claps sounded around the table for a moment or two, before dying away, immediately.

Indicating towards the opposite side of the table with a guiding hand, The Duke made a grand gesture of the announcement through a series of flourished movements, and a cheesy grin. Polite claps sounded around the table for a moment or two, before dying away, immediately. 

"To the new plague!" Someone shouted suddenly, chalice hoisted into the air with a sinister jubilance. 

A similar cheer dinged across the table, and cups raised towards the ceiling. Flug picks his up, as not to seem rude. BlackHat doesn't move a muscle to follow the cheers. His eye narrowing, and claw moving towards his head. Only hesitating half a moment below his chin, before feigning to fix the positioning of his hat. 

The rest of the evening passed by generally the same. Questions about the commission—which Flug had nicknamed, Strand 547—were asked rapidly within the first few minutes, but just when he started to get a few words out, he'd get cut off. It wasn't unusual given the pecking order, but it happened enough for Flug to get drowned out of the conversation, at some point. Miss Chevious, fed up with the constant interruptions, begins her own side conversation with the doctor. He was glad to actually talk to _someone_ about bioweapons, and his extensive experiments. 

Duke Nokles suggested that they stay for the dance after the dinner, but BlackHat twisted up his face at the idea, as though he'd been spat on, and turned away. Flug apologized for him, uttering some excuse about paperwork, and enticing international clients on strict time frames that needed to be followed up on immediately. The Duke didn't seem to buy any of it, but allowed them to leave anyway. 

Szőke met them just by the doors, smiling politely, but looking exhausted. Flug watched BlackHat walk out without so much as acknowledging the man. He paused a moment, smiled and waved, before hurrying after the Lord.

The limo was at the end of the path, door already open, engine humming, and the HatBot-Sentinel crammed into the driver's seat. Flug climbed inside right after BlackHat, and settled into the familiar plushness of the interior. His usual seat, immediately to the left of the door, so that he could close it behind him. A comfortable silence filled the vehicle, and Flug watched the lights flicker on and off around them. Trying to pay BlackHat massaging at his temples as little attention as possible, Flug smoothed out the front of his slacks, and made to pick a fleck non-existent fluff from the still pristine fabric. It was a while before anyone spoke.

"The commission," Blackhat grumbled, suddenly breaking the silence about half way home. 

His snarl for a voice had Flug jolting wide awake. He'd been holding a sort of trance listening to the engine purring and resting his eyes, but the snap of adrenaline made him sit up. Pole perfect posture, automatic.

"It's plant based...?" 

Oh, so he _had_ been listening to Miss Chevious, and his conversation. 

"T-Technically-? ...The spores enter the victim's lungs, and begin to take root. Within a few weeks, the roots are spreading throughout the rest of the body, and towards the brain—where they will then be rendered brain dead." 

It was a basic summary, overall. Blackhat probably didn't care for all the fun little details he had observed, and true to form, only hummed in response—disinterested as ever. Assuming the conversation was done after a few quiet minutes together, Flug returned to mildly dozing off while staring out the window.

* * *

At the same time, in a much different place, another meeting convened.

In the heart of Atreno City, hero factions converged to discuss a game plan. It had been a few weeks since a mystery gas was released into the air, and the rising public concern was threatening to burst into a full blown panic. At the very least, things were tense. Their meeting lacked the glamour and mirth they usually toted, and the dim lighting only seemed to underscore how _disquieting_ the whole situation was.

The table they sat around was as nearly as long and wide as the room. A portion at the center was carved out to fit a holographic map, but currently, it was put well away and switched off. The walls were an oppressing, sterile white, only broken up by large windows that looked out over the city. Sliding doors hissed as the tracks smoothly glided open, and the last two heroes walked steadily inside to take their places. The brightness that seeped into the dimmed room made a handful of people blink their eyes hard to keep them from dilating. 

“Goldenheart. Glad you could take a break from your mission to join us,” SolarPunk lamented from his seat at the head of the table. 

The ethereal glow dimmed down to a light halo around his body, and Goldenheart gave a smile that was both sheepish and unapologetic. Trailing behind him was Scarlet Beast—bandanna tied around the lower half of his face, a surgical mask under that. The action was meaningless now, he’d already been infected. But that little piece of cloth had kept him from having a complete paranoid meltdown for seven days. What could one more mask do, besides help everyone else adjourning? It was a small compensation for his wounded pride, and worsening body. He failed them. He failed them, but that didn't mean he couldn't help them understand what was happening, or make standing near him more comfortable. 

"...-Scarlet Beast. Thank You for joining us, as well. I understand that you have had a rough patch dealing with the fallout from exposure." SonarPunk's face remained impassible, but the greeting, all the same, was there, and Scarlet Beast tried to quietly clear his throat before speaking.

“The general health of the city is what’s most important to me, now. More than B.B. Gunne.” 

His voice resonated through the room; cutting through the quiet chatting of other heroes, and mostly free of the rough edge to his voice. For the first time in weeks he felt some strength come back into his chest.

Beside him, Goldenheart adjusted the two bracelets around his right wrist, and then patted the second hero's back almost playfully to urge him on.

Scarlet Beast suddenly looked sheepish,, for making such a display and he toddled after Goldenheart quietly ,once he made a move to take his place. Goldenheart found his seat left of SolarPunk, and Flare leaned forward to stare at him from the opposite side. He flashed her an impish, buck-tooth smile, and settled into his seat. Scarlet Beast found an empty seat a good space away from everyone else, and slowly sat down—hanging his head.

“If y’all could quiet down, I can give ya'll a _brief_ on the current situation.” 

Flare's voice was just as smooth and relaxed as her movements, leaning forwards in her seat, her hands in a neat arch on the table, and a pair of tailored gloves folded on her lap. A hush dispelled any remaining conversation that had continued after Goldenheart’s entrance, and with a charming smile, she reached forward on the table and pressed a delicate finger to the holographic map. It clicked on with a small robotic _chirp,_ as light blue light colored the walls.

“Ol' righ'...--one week ago BlackHat an’ his lil’ pet launched an attack on the city.” Swiping a finger against the table, a 3D model of the city emerged from the bed of the table, spinning in a complete circle, before zooming in on the exact plaza where the speech, and subsequent assault had taken place. “--released some sorta gas onto roughly a hundred-hun'dred fifty citizens, _an’_ Scarlet. A sample was collected, and turns out, it ain't a _gas_. What they really released was spores—enough to fog up the air.”

“Spores?” A hero on the far side of the table pipes up.

“Like-”

“Yeah, like plants and fungus.” 

With a careful pinch of her fingers against the glowing portion of the table, the image of the plaza zoomed out, again.

“Picked a darn good day for it too, not long after their departure, the wind started pickin’ up. Scarlet managed to get most of the civilians inside before any  _ real _ damage seemed to be done to their lungs, but the haze was spread out through the city pretty fast.”

“...Meaning other people have likely breathed it in,” Goldenheart concluded. Flare looked from the replica, to him, with pursed lips before nodding. 

“Even with that fact-,” SonarPunk stated, watching the haze of yellow spread throughout the blue city, and hands clasped in front of his chin. “ _ -Whatever _ its purpose was, it either seems to have failed, or not entirely kicked in yet. There are motions being put in place to keep people inside and off the streets until further investigation from the league. Those in the crowd will be closely monitored for any adverse effects from the exposure.”

“What about us? We’ll need to be protected as well! Not all of us have healing factors, or are virtually invincible," another hero chided, sitting up from their slouched position as their long hair stretched towards the ceiling in an amazing, gravity defying feat. 

“Precautions will be placed to ensure the continued safety of those heroes who must go out on patrols, or to various assignments. We suspect other villains will try to capitalize on this surprise attack, and attempt to take us off guard, as well. Patrols of the city will persist, and teams will be organized, and dispatched according to any threat that may arise as a result. Protective gear will be issued to those who  _ need _ it, and must remain properly worn to your best of your ability.  _ Especially  _ on duty.”

“Will that be enough..?” Quiet and meek, Scarlet Beast barely glanced up to the front of the table. Hands against his bandanna to avoid pressing against his eyes. A brief, tense silence consumed the room as all eyes turned towards him. He fidgeted uncomfortably under the scrutinization. SonarPunk regarded him evenly, without a drop of pause.

“You’ll be temporarily removed from field work, and placed into observation along with the civilians, Scarlet Beast. Mr. Brightside will attend to you, personally, in the case of any reactions,” SonarPunk says, perhaps a touch more detached than he should be. “A room has already been prepared for you.”

“I  _ have _ to stay-” Scarlet Beast started to sit up and protest, but Goldenheart suddenly raised a hand to throw his own two cents in.

“Now,  _ Joseph _ , this is for the best! For everyone involved,  _ really _ .” Buck teeth poked out on full display through Goldenheart's signature grin, and having captured the attention of everyone in the hall, put his palm back onto the table. 

“I mean- this _whole_ _thing_ really put you on edge. You only took up Sun Blast’s mantle a few weeks after his untimely demise on BlackHat’s island. It only makes _sense_ you’re still all up in your head with worry. That’s a big seat to fill, _public_ expectations, _personal_ expectations, and all these new _responsibilities_. Your career is still young, and you haven’t even had a chance to see how things are _handled_ in the field. Just let us do our things, and I’ll visit you with daily updates.”

Slightly ashamed for all this to be said in front of everyone, Scarlet Beast simply nodded, and resigned himself to fidgeting with his hands in his lap. Goldenheart’s attention switched just as quickly as it had turned to him. Flare watched Scarlet Beast carefully, button nose turned up to him, and a voice with the civility of a southern politician.

“We’re gonna be implementin’ everything by Monday. A few of y’a will need ta' stay here fer long periods of time. Sonar an’ I will contact y’all after this, and supply ya' with a place to sleep fer the time bein'.”

Fixing her curled hair Flare cast a glance over the table at the mix of anxious, and determined faces, before looking towards SonarPunk, who was already reading the room. His brow furrowed, and his knuckles went white with how tensely his hands clenched around each other. She knew, in that moment, something was about to go terribly wrong.

* * *

When they reached the manor, the sky was beginning to turn a painted myriad of yellows and oranges. A few clouds were left floating along like on stolen angel wings rose until stronger winds came to take them away. Flug was exhausted, and could barely keep his eyes open. Still, he diligently popped the door open, and slipped out to hold it for Blackhat. He waited off to the side of the car until BlackHat stepped out, and pulled the key to the gate from beneath his cape, somewhere. Flug closed the door, and almost instantaneously the car pulled out of the drive, disappearing down the street. He stopped questioning where that thing went his third year under BlackHat.

Following Blackhat inside, Flug went right down to the lab once officially dismissed for the evening—he usually knew where 5.0.5. might  _ be _ depending on the time of day, and he wanted to sneak in a few chin scritches after another night of being jostled around on eggshells. It wasn't something Blackhat liked to  _ see _ , and the bear snuggling was only  _ really _ 100% permissible post-party days. 

Flug took no short order of  _ literal _ bear hugs, and 5.0.5 was ecstatic to deal them out. The opportunity for a bit of (seldom given) rest, in exchange for his good behavior as the company doormat, didn't hurt, either.

After a half hearted thought about a lint roller, Flug brought the brief cuddle session in the lab to a close,and asked the fluffy bear to wake him at his usual time. Flug had no qualms, for once, about going straight to bed. 


	3. Opheliainlove | Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please read the Chapter notes for this chapter, both at the beginning and the end! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for this chapter include: Internalized biphobia, MAJOR & GRAPHIC descriptions of body horror and extreme sickness, illness induced hallucinations, hurt/no comfort, mentions and depictions of death and a dead body, as well as canon typical violence. If not a little more bloody.  
> Please do be aware how extreme the effects of our illness is. There is graphic depictions of vomiting, growths from under the skin and orifices, large wounds described explicitly with descriptions of blood and other liquids. Be cautious about your own needs while reading this and please take breaks whenever you need to. This can be a hard read in certain points. The rest of the fic will not be this difficult and gruesome in its depictions of the disease.

Metals doors whirled on their tracks as they opened into the central hub’s main office space, and Sonarpunk stepped in dutifully. 

“Father…?” Early morning sun washed the room with a polish that bounced off the walls and curled along the chrome sigma on the steel desk. SolarPunk, weathered from years on the job, still sat with the practiced posture of a monarch. He looked well past his age of fifty-two, but the smile that half ghosted over his expression was something that never actually changed in all the years Sonarpunk had grown up. It was a familiar subtlety that made him relax a hair. Even if he was his father, being summoned as a novice to the central hub was always a jarring (and frankly off-putting) experience. He couldn’t expect favoritism just because they were kin. In fact, he would _never_ expect that of a professional, and always conducted himself as if he were on the way to a court martial.

“You requested to see me?”

“Come in. Sit down, Mark.” 

With a resigned sigh, SolarPunk patted the side of the desk opposite to him with his good hand. Mark complied silently, lowering himself into the chair neatly, and glancing out at the city. The vague shape of a hero streaked across the sky. Being so high up, Mark could almost make out the color of their suit from the office windows, but whoever it was seemed to be too obscured by ozone, or too fast for him to really put a name to such a distant face.

In any case, it wasn’t important right now. They were both terrible at heart-to-hearts, and now it was a stalemate of who was going to brooch the moment first. That, or maybe his father just wanted a moment. 

"You think it's time." He said finally, meeting eyes with his father. SolarPunk nodded, leaning back into his chair. With another deep sigh he steepled rough hands in front of his face. Even without really meaning to, he’d tuned into SolarPunk’s neural pattern. With how often they’d done this? In training, or passing thoughts over meeting tables? It was almost muscle memory, but he nearly felt embarrassed about accidentally overstepping when Solarpunk’s frown deepened. However-

"Even with all this happening _…_? You want to pass _the title_ down, _now?_ Is that really-"

"Let me speak, boy," SolarPunk relented, his thick brows furrowing together. 

Mark took his own turn leaning back into his seat. Watching his father carefully, but removing himself from the pattern he’d accidentally locked in on. For half a moment, SolarPunk almost let his face slip again. His son was really grown up now, wasn’t he? A _man_ was sitting across from him, but he couldn’t let his pride interfere with what would have to happen moving forward.

"I’m getting up there in age now. The three branch heads all are. We wanted a year, or four more to _really_ get Annabelle, Oscar, and you ready for such big roles... but, time doesn't always work out how we want to, and you’ll probably live through lifetimes of that during your own term dealing with the forces of evil. You'll be taking the role of the League director by Monday. Oscar and Annabelle will fulfill their respective roles and be officially approved by Tuesday."

"You won't be holding a ceremony, though." Mark’s light probing into his father's mind was quickly severed with a firm mental shield.

" _Don't read me right now_. But- No, not until this has all blown over. You three will be announced, but nothing fancy until _whatever_ these villains have done has been dealt with." Closing his eyes, SolarPunk leaned forward on the desk, his elbows moving to once again rest on the metal surface. "...Which isn't to say I won't hold you to the same standard every leader before me, and after you. This is your debut, and we have to put duty first. "

"I understand." Mark said, holding his father's gaze. There was a slight swell of guilt that came with the sensation of great loss. Being forced to skip out on the title exchange ceremony was almost unheard of. Now that it was his turn to take up such a long awaited proverbial torch, the _one_ event he could say he had aspired to his _entire_ life, was now being taken away from him. 

As smooth as the answer came, his father seemed unconvinced. Maybe it was from years of wrestling the truth from liars, or just because he knew what his son looked like when he was wrestling with resentment. He didn’t even really ever need to tap into SonarPunk’s mind to know exactly when he happened to be chewing on something emotionally. He was a good dad like that. Under his direction it would certainly be harder for anyone else to ever get a read on him, now. SolarPunk stared him down for a few, long moments, and the lingering frown deepened the creases in his forehead. He turned to look out the windows as he spoke again.

"You'll have to live up to that name. Our line has led the League for generations, especially when times have changed too quickly or things have gotten bad. You'll do our ancestor's name proud, SonarPunk." The tired smile that his father gave him was warm—unusual to anyone but probably him—and fond, but the responsibility that came with it was a cold weight on his shoulders. As his father turned back around to draw out a few different files for their meeting, SonarPunk tried to get his jaw tightening muscles to loosen. 

Respect was drilled into him from elementary school. Control was meticulously trained into his soul to replace the anger that often crawled along the lining in his stomach. Duty was what kept him focused, eyes straight ahead, no matter how chaotic the situation may be… But the uncertainty. The _dread_. That shadow that hung over him, and constricted his throat the more he thought of being the _one director_ to finally bring shame to his family's name after _generations_. It might as well have been a demon standing behind him. The feeling of his father reading him was barely present, it was a soft sensation on the back of his skull that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Like a spider scuttling across it. Mark wasn't sure what Solar was looking for, but he raised his shields nonetheless.

"Father, no reading goes both ways." He muttered, arms crossed over his stomach. SolarPunk blinked, but retracted his own reach just as easily with a dry chuckle. 

“My bad. Call me unprofessional, but it’s my job to worry about my heir. I know this isn’t what you expected.” From what he’d already gleamed, that was the general consensus for _most_ of the organization. Then again, maybe they should have known better when Blackhat came out of retirement at the start of the basic training. Things were bound to change.

Although, some concerns were more conjecture than others, considering who would fill out the other two branches. Goldenheart… _in charge?_ It wasn’t unexpected, in fact, it made the most sense to establish their ‘golden child’ as the name and face for the public to ogle at, but Golden was…headstrong. Well meaning, but hopelessly, and _extremely_ prideful. Annabelle didn't bring the same feeling of uncertainty for some reason, but then again, she wouldn’t stamp her foot and pout if she suddenly decided the sky was red and no one else agreed. 

"-Regardless, we move forward, Mark. Give yourself and your old man a break. This can’t be too much of a shock, all things considered. You took long enough to respond to my emails, but I’m sure you’ve already picked up on the state of our union. You’re a damn smart kid—don't get worked up over this. You've been training for this position since sixth grade, and you're lucky I'm alive if you need advice." SolarPunk’s smile didn’t seem to reach his eyes. Mark forced his own mouth to mirror him, nodding in acknowledgment. He wasn’t wrong. 

“It’s not myself I’m concerned with. It’s the other people.” With a quiet scoff and wave of his hand, SolarPunk dismissed the notion. 

“You can’t control other people—not like your mother could have—but you know what they _want_. You’re in the unique position to be privy to their innermost thoughts. _Use_ that, son. There’s nothing a man can't resist more then getting a taste of what he’s always desired, especially if you can dangle it close enough to his nose to make him think he can have it if he hops high enough.” Papers were stacked to the left of the desk, some signed, others covered in red marker and small notations from other departments. Mark thinks about how he'll be the one putting his signature on those soon.

“I can tell that isn’t all that you wanted to talk to me about.” Leaning back into his chair SolarPunk, smiled, raising an eyebrow at his son, and crossing arms over his chest. SonarPunk’s eyes fell closed as he chuckled, and shook his head. 

“Alright. You’re right. I’m not _just_ here for a catch up, or a schedule discussion. I wanted to discuss the nitty-gritty of your position as the league's new strategist.” SolarPunk smirked. Moments like these really made Sonar think of all of the old memorabilia his dad’s face was immortalized on. He looked younger, ambitious. 

“Of course. I trust you more than anyone to be a professional.”

* * *

SonarPunk walked from his father’s—well, really, _his_ new office—with only the glide of the office doors to fill the sudden vacancy of the converging hallways. The League headquarters always had a quiet darkness to them when everything was so shut down. Despite the heavy security clearance needed to even walk near the central hub, it was always filled with high profile staff and veterans. 

With only the back up lights to keep him company, the corridors just felt too empty and too clean- but then again, with mounting concerns about personnel testing kits, that was understandable. It was better if they developed a way to verify infection first, rather than chance the idea that all hub personnel were clean and put the lives of specialists on a gamble. It was almost a paradoxical feeling to feel claustrophobic when there was arguably _more_ space, but the white halls condensed under their cover of muted light and hanging shade, and it gave him a feeling. Something akin to the eerie transdimensional feeling of emptied school hallways. A liminal space where the air still buzzed with life and energy, but held a thickness that floated aimlessly as though it had all been submerged underwater.

Almost like staring into a person’s eyes, and not knowing if they were dead or not. 

As he walked evenly down the winding halls towards the glass elevator, he stopped just in front of the fork that divided off towards the Hall of Honor. Specifically, the one dedicated to those lost over the centuries to BlackHat’s island. These doors were open at all times, much like the identical copy that was downstairs in the civilian precinct, and tours were available to civilians. To confront them with the true horror that _was_ BlackHat. Whatever he was. 

But this second hall, the central hub’s hall, was for the _grieving_. This one was a memorial, and he promised to only enter when someone else wasn’t there to mourn. It was part of the reason he’d never been inside, there was always someone, sometimes a crowd. However, now it was empty, and on an impulse, he changed directions and went towards the golden glow of the marble room. The door’s handle clicked in his palm as he pushed his way inside. The hall was tall, like a roman atrium, and it could probably wrap around the building. On each side of the walls were pictures and commemorative plaques for each person lost. Dated back from the founding of the League, to present day. 

The International Hero's League had been brought up on suffering, and rebellion. In a time when the rulers of the land had little appraisal for kindness. The lowest, who fed them until they were fat, were seldom gifted bread, given no clean water, and were offered little more than a shirt, or a pile of dirt to sleep upon. Neglect lit the fires of injustice in the hearts of those first few. Those with fire in their spirits, and defiance in their hearts, who stood up. Who established themselves as a force _for_ the people. By the people.

It’s unknown, really, where the Gifts came from. Some of the more religious scholars accredit them to Ithys, goddess of duty and blessings.

The legends of their ancestors varied greatly. From tales of them usurping the then government and being rewarded with them, to Goldenheart’s ancestor saving Ithys herself (the most popular variation) while she was faced with mortal peril inside a human vessel. Supposedly, once she was returned to godhood, she in turn blessed his lineage with godhood. When the hero continued to use her Gifts for the prosperity of others, she was inspired to seek out the pure of heart to create the first generation of heroes. For as long as humanity chose to carry their blessings with duty, integrity, and heroism, Ithys promised to ensure that the lineage of his people would continue to prosper. For many, as long as blood pumped through their veins the spirit of heroism bloomed in their hearts.

SonarPunk was not one to believe these tales too strictly. He hadn’t any guesses where the Gifts originated, nor did he care. Ancient history was only relevant as a foundation. Now that it was done with, it was only worth what they built now to make it a functional institution. After all, what was a foundation if nothing useful was founded on it? True history was what was done in the present, and who the ones to do it were. There was no room for unfounded mythos in the battle between good and evil, and history was only a testament to what had been already done.

There was never enough done.

The silence of the hall was strange without any movement. Much like the central hub, there were always mourners. Always heroes, at least, mulling around. Even the dead seemed to be waiting for the silence to be broken. However, with none of the normal white noise, only the golden ambient lighting only his own movement rang around the carved marble. It was impeccably clean, and it made him very aware of the squeak his sneakers made. His eyes scanned over so many faces that after about twenty, he stopped really taking them in. 

They all had that same smile to them, no matter the age, despite the gender, regardless of the rank. Unaware. Warm. _Oblivious_. It was like looking at some giant, but morbid case study of dramatic irony. They had no idea this was to be their destiny, but here they stayed, smiling. Most of the pictures for the hall were submitted by friends, or family. If not to give the families the option to display who they felt their loved ones really were, then to collect the most recent record possible of them for the league to submit to their historical databases. It made most of the families get a little closer to know they would be remembered. Remembering some of them didn’t make SonarPunk feel any less uneasy. After all, _he_ would have to be the one to put the new ones up. 

The proud rows of smiling faces made them all look like they were under some giant family tree, but in the context of the hall, the idea had a much colder connotation. 

There were so many faces, so many colors, and types of heroes. Without any sound at all, and with the knowledge that this was a memorial display, it reminded Mark of the wall of etymology in the science museum. Pinned insects arranged in neat rows to observe. Dazzling wings, and strong shells that were maintained and set in a showcase for the public to learn from. He got that same uneasiness when he asked his father how the bug wall was made. A lot of the museum was plastic, so he assumed that they were, too. The knowledge that they were once very alive unsettled him, and he never really admired that room as much on the rest of their return trips. That feeling condensed, now. They had no idea that when this picture was taken, it would be one of their last. That _this_ would be their legacy. But then, how could they...?

This was why tradition was so important, though. History had no bearing on them, but traditions were something the present cherished. It was the reminder that they were all still alive. That they all had a place here. A role. But, fell under the same mission.

Truly, hero ceremonies depreciated their normally lavish flair in order to really understand that. Maybe even, to remember that they were _all_ really powerless at some point in their ancestry. For an organisation so focused around PR and duty, these moments were few, but precious. It was always so comfortable, so familiar to be so dressed down from their usual expectations and be free to mingle among the ranks with no fear of reprimand. 

Even the veterans, cleaned of joy and frivolity after so many years of battling hell, seemed to find enough peace to smile and make merry with those who would take up their own arms in their place some day. These were occasions he chased as a child. All of the hard work he put into training could be endurable, if only so he could stand a little closer to his father. If only so Annabelle would sit near him for a well earned rant on her grievances with the new recruits and daintily reaffix the cream colored bow under her straw summer hat. If only so he could watch Oscar pretend to lose a wrestling match to his younger cousin and ‘die’. (He was always fully expected to call a placid time of death before his best friend could get up and chase the gathering group of children, and claim to be ‘BlackHat’s undead minion’.)

It was casual, but it was also close. That closeness he felt to all of them. That unspoken understanding that this might be their last time together. That enjoyment they all extended to one another with the knowledge that there were far more heroes than villains, but seldom a hero that could match up to them, especially given how advanced BlackHat’s organization had become, and how _precise_ their products could be. There would be a lot of loss. That was the only certain thing.

In nearly two hundred years, a title passing up ceremony had never been missed or postponed. 

Of all the ceremonies, it was definitely the most important, and unlike most other ceremonies, it was a blessed tradition. A tradition that called on them to take up the name of their forebears by splicing their hero titles to their family’s namesake.

In the old days, it was usually a title that the forebearers decided for their sons or daughters entering the service, however, less than a hundred years ago it became the first thing they decided for themselves in basic training. Mark had known his true name since he was five years old. He only really had to change one letter in his name, and it only really made practical sense to. And had cultivated himself around it; although the choice was really in his hands, he got his father’s blessing anyways. 

Every long night, or exhaustive regime went into that name, went into his crafted legacy. Every precaution and organized strike was in preparation for the day he’d be ordained as their new guiding hand. Sonarpunk felt himself bristle with a deep rage he had been trying to brush off. Even with the filter headset at full power, the lights sounded too loud. His pants brushing against the fabric of his other leg was a grating pattern, and the radio waves that were filtering aimlessly through the tiny windows at the top were bouncing off the marbles and refracting into slices of nonsense that just babbled like white noise in his head. It was annoying him. Picking at the last of his composure like a thread. When he tried to focus on the human sourced waves, he was displeased to hear someone’s bpm and brainwaves spiking from somewhere in the lower decks of the basement level—all of it was throwing him off. Everything was both too loud, and too suffocatingly silent for him to feel normal. The anger clawed its way up his throat, but rather than suppress it, for once, he let it happen. All alone, that was completely permissible to do, and in the hall of the dead, what had he to fear? These were the traceable markers of his forefather's failures. 

With so much evil in the world, he had been looking forward to the title ceremony.

He looked forward to finally feeling clean. Expunged of the grime that clung to him, and that had been following him. He wanted to feel like a clean slate before he began his term, wanted to throw himself into the preparation, and hold his head high, when dressed in the silk robes and sacred herbs. Wanted Ithys herself, real or not, to reflect on him. He wanted to be recognized.

And now, just because of BlackHat, they would be forced to _miss_ tradition.

SonarPunk seethed in silence, fists clenched, and his frown deepening as his eyes scanned the immaculate walls of many smiles. _BlackHat_. The one commonality in the middle of all of this loss. The source of all of this _putrid_ grime on his hands. If there was anyway to kill h-

Eyes continued across the wall, ghosting over faces until Kenny stared back at him. It was such a jarring change from the rest of the pictures that he almost stumbled when he stopped to stare. A picture from the school’s yearbook. It was a perfectly respectable picture, there were a _lot_ of yearbook photos, but what really snagged Mark's attention was the expression. He remembered that face. 

The boy was too meek to stand in front of cameras, or even open his eyes around them. Kenny had a problem with being seen, which was always ironic when his brother was parading around and shoving his way into everyone's conversations. Oscar made friends with everyone, and somehow knew just what to say to win someone over, to a point SonarPunk wondered if maybe he _wasn’t_ the only mind reader in their class—but that was just how Oscar was, no powers attached, just perceptive as hell. 

It was always so wild to watch them both in the same room. Kenny avoided common rooms, avoided most people, and didn’t join any clubs- despite Oscar complaining about how much their father had wanted him to. Oscar and Kenny were complete opposites, and honestly, the resemblance was only visible if someone pointed it out. They both had the same eyes and those high cheekbones, but Kenny was so pale he could have been a very, very frail ghost. Now that he was _here_ , he might as well be...

Those doe eyes, big like the camera had caught him off-guard, looked spooked. Those messy, ruddy curls flipping up in every which way, the splatter of freckles casting a soft glow across the bridge of his nose. It was an involuntary reaction if he was remembering that right. Just passing by him in the halls those marks looked like someone had taken a brown sharpie, and mottled his skin with too many marks and then tried to scrub them off. He was even surprised to witness them ignite like someone had splatted the contents of a broken glow stick across his face when he was scared. Golden had some amazing self control over his own glow, but since it was more of an accessory power than a useful one, Kenny just never _learned_ how to control his before- …before he went and got himself killed.

SonarPunk stared at those eyes for a moment longer—one frown, lost in a sea of smiling faces, that now stuck out _way too much to him_ —before turning away. It was a little too sobering to feel that heavy rage, now- too watered down by those slightly wary eyes, and the oppressive weight settling over the atmosphere of the hall. He hadn’t had to put up that first picture, had he? This was supposed to be a place that his memory was recognized, to be seen by the leader for making the ultimate sacrifice. It was a priceless value to lose someone. In this hall, their picture was the recognition that the responsibility for their death came at the cost of their leader's expertise. It was the greatest honor anyone could really hope to dedicate themselves to, but--

... was this inaction somehow _another_ smudge on his record? His father had hung that picture. It wasn’t his place to step in and take over that responsibility, especially since he was already on route to basic training when he got the news, but could he say in _good’s conscience_ he had _no_ blood on his hands?

The sound of his tennis shoes against the ground consumed his mind for a moment, bringing it back down from the angered fit, and into something more outfitted for a funeral. It wasn’t quite gone, but it was tempered enough by guilt to make it less of a visible issue. It all evened out by the time he had half backtracked to the door he came in to, and once the handle clicked heavily in his hand, he was back to being ever clear-headed about the whole affair. Honestly, this wasn't really a concern he should still have any attachment to. He was acting like an emotional child when they had a national emergency on their hands. The past didn’t matter. Ancient history was only relevant as a foundation. Now that it was done with, it was only worth what they built now to make it a functional institution. 

_I’ll need to buy fancier outfits for when I’m in office, won’t I…?_ _Maybe, I should consider changing my suit a little before I go out again. The least I can do to honor tradition, is purchase a proper pair of slacks and dress shoes, whe-_ _Okay, Stop. Get home._

* * *

_This is so cool! I never thought I’d ever get close enough to shake their hands like this—_ Oh my god _, is that Flare?!_

As if Flare cued into her excitement, she turned from the man she’d previously been shaking hands with and smiled at her, the sun catching on the crest of her lashes, and vintage golden ringlets in her hair. She was just pretty as ever, but photos really didn’t do her any justice. That kind of natural beauty was something you had to see to really believe, and her taste in retro styles just made her all the more entrancing. Despite how active she was as an on duty combatant, the only mark on her unblemished skin was a small, pale scar across the fine bridge of her nose. It was really kind of impressive how otherwise perfect she looked. Like a living porcelain doll. It took Boupha a moment to realize she was both staring like a complete weirdo, and also being approached, and nearly had a heart attack when Flare was suddenly right in front of her and offering a hand.

“Mornin’ Sugah, nice ta’ meet you.” 

“Ah- um, Good morning! It’s really awesome to meet you, I'm a _huge_ fan of yours!-” Her handshake was a lot firmer than what Boupha had expected it to be. It wasn’t enough to hurt her, or to pinch the bones in her hand together, but it was definitely enough to catch her off guard. Flare shook her hand twice with all the gentle grace of an empress. “You're my inspiration. I’m honored to meet you.” 

Keeping her composure was an amazing feat at the moment. Especially when Flare full on beamed at her for it, laughing politely into her palm with a warm gaze in her eyes. It was extremely hard _not_ to be immediately charmed by her, and really, the longer they shook hands, the more it felt like her head was starting to float off her neck. Okay, so she may be a little star struck... but _Damn! It! All_ _!_ After what seemed like a lifetime of cheap seats she paid out her wallet for at Hero-Con, she had never gotten to _see the big three, up close!_ Just thinking about it made her think about all the lectures she’d had to endure about finances. Her mom was well-meaning, but she just didn’t understand the point. Although, this really was the best case scenario. With some gratitude, Boupha tried to shut out the idea of meeting Flare, herself, in her Flare cosplay while trying to shake hands and chat like two normal adults.

“Well, Ah’m honored. But we really should be gettin’ this show on the road….no offence, Dear.” Flare smiled again as she let go of her hand, curtsying slightly to her, and stepped back up the platform in front of the research facility to stand beside SonarPunk and GoldenHeart. Her knees wobbled beneath her. The three even _stood_ like they did on TV, and in the news.

_Wow… I feel like I’m in a comic book!_

Flare’s posture was the most relaxed out of the three. Or, at least, it seemed that way; Boupha knew better. While she looked relatively relaxed, Boupha knew that that air of civility, that gentle calm she always carried herself with, that deliberate posturing, the way her hands folded _just so_ in front of her thighs—was one of Flare’s best traits. It was a _lure_ . A lot of female heroes were pressured to mimic the boys in order to be recognized, but Flare? She used it. She made herself look as pretty, and polite as possible, and the moment someone stepped out of turn? Underestimated that pretty face? _WHAM!_

She knew _exactly_ what she was doing. There were so many videos online of her in action online and she’d watched all of them. It was kind of surprising that nobody seemed to learn she was always at a battle-ready stance just by watching how _quickly_ she could spring into battle. If you looked, you could _tell_ that those polite gestures worked to her advantage, if not to activate her powers, then to catch some gross henchman off guard! And she did it _smiling_ , almost dancing in the gown of flames she created. Flare was the second strongest up-and-comer, and part of the reason was her _refusal_ to compromise on who she was. Strong, powerful, smart, and completely unashamed to be as feminine as she pleased.

 _God, she’s so cool! Why did I have to get so_ weird _? She came up to me, and I probably came off like those gross weirdos on twitter! UGH!_

That bad-ass glint in her eye was _such_ a dead give away. Could all the fanboys on Twitter point that out?! She was _way_ too good for any of them, if all people could talk about was how great it would be if _all_ women were just as feminine _,_ and that the modern age was ‘ _full of degeneracy because so and so_ ’ -incel blabbering layered over ‘ _Flare is the ideal housewife_ ’ ,and conservative yada-yada. _Gross_. 

Boupha almost felt the mood sour, but when she refocused on the group in front of her, she felt a glittering sort of awe re-spark itself in her chest. Something rather reverential. 

_The_ _Big Three_ just… _fit_ _together._ Looking at them all assembled before her, she could just feel it. This was its own experience. They were the future. They were a hopeful cry in the darkness, and they were the lights to guide them. Oh my god, This was the next chapter of _history!_ Boupha promised silently into the depths of her soul, that she would take in every detail. This was her chance to witness _history_! Being made! With the big three! This was _her_ testimony in the making! 

_If I ever have kids, they’re gonna let me gush about this for their whole damn lives._

Flare glanced over at SonarPunk, dimpling when they caught eyes. Whatever message passed between them made SonarPunk shake his head almost disapprovingly and he stood as stiff as a candle. His arms were crossed behind his back and underneath the pack he always had on—his jaw set in a sharp expression, with a certain detached look to his eyes as they scanned over the faces in the crowd. It was methodical. One by one. The sort of stoniness that always made him appear one step ahead. Even when he had been an apprecintacing hero, that cool-headedness had put him apart from the crowd.He looked tired, but impeccable as always. Flare fluffed her curls gently in response, and went to lean up and whisper something to Goldenheart. GoldenHeart, who was happily trying to smile and/or wave at everyone in the crowd, blinked a bit when flare tugged the collar of his cape a bit suggestively. Flare allowed a small smirk when he unconsciously followed her hand, only to look a tiny bit dumbfounded when she’d managed to coax him down to her eye line. When he scowled a little petulantly at being led around, Flare merely patted his cheek fondly and whispered something into his temple. The pout morphed into glee almost instantaneously; nodding furiously. The middle of his chest seemed to get a little brighter for half a second, before he straightened up. With his hands on his hips, feet spread out beneath him, Goldenheart puffed out in a renewed burst of pride.The pinnacle of heroism. 

_What an absolute goof! He’s like a puppy...and totally has a crush one someone. Now,_ that _is a man. Get it, Flare..!_

A sidekick carried a mic stand up to the stage, and once it was ready, reported soundlessly to SonarPunk before they dipped off stage with a salute. SonarPunk watched him go, then walked up to the microphone, and tapped it twice to get the attention of the gathering civilians. It fell silent in under ten seconds.

“Thank you all for coming today, the League is incredibly grateful to you all for coming on such short notice. We may soon be in a state of emergency due to an unprecedented attack from The Blackhat Organization, and your cooperation is invaluable to us. Since you were all present for Scarlet Beast’s public speech last week, we’ll need to place you all under strict protection and supervision. This is why you’ve been called here today. You’ll only need to stay for up to forty days to allow us to ensure you don’t experience any adverse effects to BlackHat’s attack, but if any symptoms register we may need you stay longer. The League has already sent notifications to all places of employment letting them know the situation.” 

Sporadic bursts of muttering started up in clumps, substantially more nervous and unsettled than the farfare of before. Boupha frowned and raised her hand to ask a question. The crowd got quieter again. SonarPunk’s eyes seem to cut right into her soul through the navy blue tint of his visor. Even if she wanted to shrink now, he was already looking her way, so when a sidekick in a green jumper ran a mic out to her, she went ahead and asked outright.

“So, you’ll be like… following me home, or…?” 

As much as having personal protection from heroes would be pretty sweet, (and maybe she could finally get a picture with Flare out of this) there were a _lot of other people_ in the crowd. A _lot_ of people. With the number of worried citizens in the crowd, she didn’t think they had enough babysitters to trail over 300 civilians, _and_ look after the city at the same time. Especially if this was Blackhat. That freak usually struck twice in the same place…. like lightning. Flare stepped in front of the microphone, and turned it towards her like SonarPunk was only keeping it hot for her.

“No, darlin’. We ‘ave a sweet lil’ room set up for all of ya to stay in fer a couple’a days,” Flare drawled out, shifting her weight on her hips as she smiled reassuringly at her,“...got all the things yer gonna need for a short stay, comfy too. Besides, we wanna make sure ya’ll have access to our facilities if somethin’ flies South.”

Beside her, Goldenheart took a hand from his hip, brushed his fingers through his hair to smooth it back. His grin was still on full display, but his gaze never stopped wandering around. Boupha blinked, but it took a second for that all to really catch up enough to hit her. This really _was_ a serious situation, and the _reality of that very situation_ was crawling up her skull and working inside her stomach. 

"My job-" Boupha muttered into the microphone, still trying to keep enough projection to her voice to be heard despite how uncomfortable she suddenly felt, "... my job is online. Can I still keep that up?"

Sonarpunk re-affixed the microphone to its original position with a very pointed look towards his companion. It was hard to tell if he was annoyed or not. 

"To answer your question, yes. I'll send an apprentice with you to pick up essential items, and then we'll move them to your room in the In-paitent complex of the IHL Research Facility. All expenses, including utilities and food, will be at our expense, so if there are any concerns about finances, then let one of our representatives know." 

SonarPunk’s tone was even, but really lacking. A common joke that floated around hero forums about him was how clinical and robotic he was—like the terminator. Although watching him was something else. Everything from his voice to his uniform was crisp, and watching him tug the wrinkles in his gloves out before casting a glance across stag, really emphasized that in ways 

Boupha had trouble distancing from people she would soon have to put her full trust in. His eyes looked over the crowd, then towards the other two heroes. The hard expression on his face made him kind of impossible to read, even his fingers curled slowly and precisely, analyzing something. Either he was trying to be the rational right brain of the trio to deal with this situation, or he was about to go Dr. Flug on everyone here like something out of a Steven King book.

_Geez, the guy could smile, at least...this is why you’re number three, dude. Maybe it’s not his fault, but he’s really bad at talking to people as a hero. I mean, seriously. I know you got fangirls drooling after your stone impression, but get a better PR face,Sonar._

"--you'll be loaned personal protective gear for the trip and once packed, we'll ask you to stay in your room as much as possible for a forty day grace period.There will be no second trips to minimize possible transmission infections, so pack efficiently." 

Chewing on her bottom lip, Boupha wondered if she could even really say no. On one hand, she would be close to _heroes_ for five whole weeks! Close enough to maybe even interview a few for her growing channel—but on the other hand—who knew _where they were going to be_ for forty days. Wasn’t this place insanely new? God, it was probably just going to be an empty hospital-esque room with _one measly window_ , She could already smell the drying paint and see the uncomfortably close ‘popcorn’ stucco in the ceiling. 

Or they could break her computer on the way over. 

It was the right thing to do, for sure. Almost a civic duty, really, but this wasn’t something she was _planning_ on. Especially at _this_ time of the year. Forty days was almost a month, and a week… maybe her job wasn’t in danger, but a month-and-a-week would be cutting her anniversary a little too close for real comfort. 

“ _Now_ , no need gettin’ her all riled up for nothin’,SonarPunk.” 

Flare took her by the shoulder, unexpectedly bringing her into her side in a sort of open hug. Boupha nearly jumped out of her skin a second time. Maybe she was spacing out, but when had Flare moved? She was up on stage pawing for the mic a few moments ago, but now she was suddenly here. In the audience. Who were all...staring at them. _Oh god_.

“... don’t go listenin’ to him now, Sugah. He doesn’t have all the charm Goldie an’ I got. We’ll be takin’ great care of ya.” 

With a playful look over at SonarPunk she shook Boupha by the shoulder. A sudden smile suddenly split Golden’s features and he laughed in agreement. 

“Sonar _,_ I love you man-- and you’re my best bro- but you _always_ scare all the girls at these things!! What’s up with _that, huh!_ ? _Hahaha-!_ ”

Goldenheart clapped a very unprepared SonarPunk on the back—only laughing harder when his ‘best bro’ squawked and lost almost all the air in his lungs. SonarPunk frowned, looking slightly flustered as the crowd broke up into a murmur of well humored chuckles and giggles. After a moment, Sonar smoothed himself out, and flashed Goldenheart a petulant glare. It did nothing to dampen the mood, and everyone seemed to relax once everyone sufficiently proved themselves to be incredibly silly. Even if she still had doubts, Boupha, much like the rest of the crowd, felt a calm dispel once the ice had finally broken between them all. After all, she could only trust what the future would hold, and these people were the future.

* * *

“Woah, this room is bigger than I thought it would be.” 

Boupha gaped, turning around in the doorway to get a good look at the space she would call ‘home’ for the next month. It really _was_ a beautiful room—much fancier then any hotel room she’d lodged in before—with plenty of space, a medium bath, and a gorgeous skylight in the middle of the room. Boupha only really stopped admiring the soft cream colored designs in the wall when the apprentice with her luggage bag came in with all her ‘essentials’ balanced on his head. He’d introduced himself in the lobby, as Jack Scharfenburg, and shook her hand aggressively enough for his whole arm to literally pop off. It took fifteen minutes to calm down after that nasty shock, and the whole time she was packing he had to explain that that might happen, since his Gift allowed him to detach his limbs. 

It was something she could surmise well enough on her own, but the kid was on the verge of tears after he scared her, so she let him say whatever he wanted to feel better. They were on much better terms now.

“Aren’t they sweet?!” Jack laughed, tilting his head enough for the luggage case he was balancing on top to drop into his arms, his shoulders jerked down at the weight of it, but he straightened back up quickly. 

“—I think you really made an impression on Miss Flare! She volunteered to be the one to watch over you, and report any discrepancies. Not that she’ll be the only one- if you want to put a request in for supplies, medication, food, or something to do while you stay here, we’ve been given a trust fund to use- but, that’s really cool! Like, really, really cool, you know? Which- isn’t hard, she’s really sweet!” He laughed,face pink in the cheeks and slightly winded from either his constant chatter, or the physical labor of the move. He seemed a little bit crooked all in all, he even had an incisor missing on the bottom left of his mouth, but overall, he was just a kind of bubbly guy that seemed nervous about doing a good job, so Boupha didn’t exactly blame him for being a smidge overexcited. 

Despite how close she was going to be getting to her anniversary, she’d be out of here with four days to spare. Plane tickets could be rebought, hotels could be moved, and she wouldn’t have to stay in her home town long. It was great! It couldn’t have been more tailored to her schedule. Besides, if she was somehow in Flare’s good graces, she was kind of excited, too.

“How’s that gonna work anyways? Here, I got it.” Grabbing the handle of the RIMOWA, she pressed the button on the side to extend the handle and dragged it into the room. “Are there like… cameras in here? Or are you just gonna pop in every few hours…?” 

“ _Oh_ ,” Jack’s smile dimmed as he leaned back against the open doorway, itching at the back of his neck sheepishly

“I’m just a second year, so, they don’t let me in on most of the stuff going on here- and plus, that’s mostly under SonarPunk’s jurisdiction _. I’m_ training under someone else… Uh-- but, from what I’ve heard through the grapevine, they’ll come in around lunch time for a health screening.”

Boupha set the luggage down by the foot of the bed, and pressed against the back wall, looking up at the beams of light coming in the skylight while they could still chat. The room was more rectangular in shape than she’d imagined, with a bed in the left corner directly in front of the door, and a full kitchenette for cooking. There was a pretty plush looking couch near the middle of the room, with sunlight spilling over the empty glass coffee table, and a lovely wooden desk fitted against the far right wall. She could already see herself enjoying mornings here. Hopefully the coffee wasn’t too shitty, but slow rises to the day sounded nice. True to one of her predictions, there was only one window, but contrary to what she imagined, it was a sizable sky light. It was just the one window, but it would do. 

Flare _was_ kind of right about it being comfy. Maybe it was the sun coming in through the roof, but the whole place just felt relaxing and warm. It was pretty styling, too. Besides the cream and white swirls in the plaster, one of the three walls near the closet and bathroom area was converted into a giant mirror. When the sun set it would probably set at a low enough angle to bounce off the mirror and illuminate the room. A lot of thought seemed to be put into making this area as comfortable as possible, and it made her a little sad she’d have to trade this out for some shady Airbnb after getting a taste of five star accommodations. For now, she’d just have to remember that talking to someone not in a computer would be a small luxury she had to milk at the moment.

“Guess that makes sense..” She muttered, slipping her overstuffed backpack from her shoulder and setting it on the sheets that were carefully folded at the foot of the bed. 

“..-this doesn’t seem too bad…”

Jack seemed to brighten all the way back up, at that.

“Haha, yeah..! And you know, there’s lots of stuff you can order from the lobby! Board games, cards, paint, maybe a little garden of something? They’re already taking a lot of orders down from other rooms, but anything you want or need, you can totally ask for. For now the world really is your platter. I know you gotta chill out here for a time all by yourself, but if you’re ever feeling really lonely, I could see if me or one of my friends could drop by to visit you? Actually, my S.O. and I _really_ like your content.They’re super into your original works too! I can't tell you _how many_ date nights where I’ve had to try to argue with half a bowl of spaghetti in my mouth, over all the directions your stories go! We just come up with theories about your series all the time!”

Standing from the doorway Jack Scharfenburg gave her another smile that was a touch too nervous for how casual he was trying to make himself sound. It could just be the word vomit he was trying to cover up, though.

“Yeah. That’ll be nice.” 

Meeting people like this was always awkward. Knowing people have already met her in a sense without her ever needing to see them was always a strange reality. She was extremely grateful to have such a receptive audience, but the number of times people had flagged her down in the street was a little....weird. It was weird. So many people knew her, listened to her, had half an idea about her likes and dislikes and struggles, and she didn’t even have a name to fit their face. It was just so jarringly impersonal. It felt hollow. There really wasn’t a relationship on her end, but she meant something to other people anyways. 

“Alright,then! It’s a date!… -haha, for now I’ll stop pestering you, and leave you to unpack- really settle in and get everything in order. I’ll talk to you later! It was nice to meet you, Ophileainlove!” 

With a wave he stepped back and scurried out of the room, the metal door sliding closed silently behind him. It didn’t escape her that he used her Twitter handle instead of her name.

* * *

“Hey! Sorry I was a little late today, I-” Her eyes darted across her screen, watching the chat pick up speed and balanced her audio output. “Was that too loud? ...Anyways, I had to temporarily change locations, so unpacking and setting everything up was more of a hassle than I remembered it was. Hm? Oh! No, not a new apartment or anything. You guys remember that attack BlackHat and his-… engineer?... did on the plaza last week?”

Boupha changed the formatting of the stream while she talked, readjusting the screen to fit both her facecam, and the game she was streaming to Twitch to keep an eye on the chat, better. A note caught her eye.

“-his _scientist_! _Yes_ , thank you. I try not to devote too much energy to villains, but they sprayed a bunch of spores onto the crowd, apparently. Since I was _in_ that plaza area trying to stream Scarlet Beast, I’ve been taken into the League to make sure nothing happens. Health checks and all that good stuff. Believe me, once I got here, they ran me through the ringer with all the health nonsense. It took me like four hours for a doctor to completely scan me over and take a ‘Day One Chart’. By the time they were done, I think _they_ knew more about me, then _I_ knew about myself. Hahaha, I guess the good news is that I won’t have to go to the doctor for ten years after this, since _they_ seem to be trying to get it all done now. It's all a little much, but I gotta give the heroes credit for interior design. On another note.…-guess who got to meet _Flare_ in the flesh?!” 

The stream continued on as normal, with nothing notable other than the occasional cough as she rattled off about heroes and game mechanics. Like many other past streams, Opheliainlove was dedicated to the most recent hero fanfare, but somehow still managed to balance that out between responding to donations, and breaking in her new town on Animal Crossing—just as gorgeous, and warm as ever. Her long dark hair, flawless olive kissed skin (save for a freckle at the corner of her left eye she constantly complained about), and bright green eyes, made her a pretty popular channel. Looks always _did_ for these kinds of things, but Boupha liked to believe that most of her audience was mostly in it for the _commentary._

The morning stream passed relatively uninterrupted, and the only real disturbance was messing up a custom apron about four times. As the steam reached just past the five hour mark, she decided to call it a day and break for lunch. Boupha logged off with well wishes, and pulled her headphones off just in time for a soft knock on the door to catch her attention. Pulling the headphones completely off her head from where she’d pulled them down to her shoulders, she quickly turned towards the door, and closed the laptop with her free hand. 

“Come in, I'm ready for whatever cotton swab you’re gonna stick me with,” She called, glancing up at the sky light. There were thin, wispy clouds lingering overhead. High above the window, she could almost see the wind sweep across the sky and press in on the glass. The door opened, but rather than another team of rotating doctors, _Flare_ silently stepped in and closed the door behind her—leaving Boupha to just sort of gape at her from the couch.

Her outfit wasn’t casual to modern standards, but then again, clothing on Flare never was. She permanently looked like someone from _Gone With the Wind_ who walked off stage and never looked back. It was something that earned her criticism at the start of her career, but all dolled up, with a southern charm that hummed on the fringe of her voice the lace and white puff sleeves made her look both arresting, and opulent. With a _success_ rate like hers, it was hard to hold a candle to her gasoline fueled flame. And with an _approval_ rating like hers, the gossip magazines who once shunned her for unprofessionalism suddenly found themselves in rags. 

The skirt of the dress was pearl white, with a minty green trimming that caught the light. It was a sort of long sleeved summer dress Boupha couldn’t name off the top of her head—maybe some kind of flowy Edwardian ruffle dress made for springs, or garden parties. The cloth was opaque and soft looking, but despite the fact that they were inside _,_ Flare looked rather snug. Comfortable, even though she seemed like she was smiling at Boupha just so that she wouldn’t accidentally let a giggle slip from how dumbfounded her company was. The thick stripe of mint green cloth tied around her waist wound into a drooping bow that accentuated her figure, but didn’t openly draw attention to it. The bodice had a similar sort of matte, pearl material—layered in loose swoops from the center of her chest to the frame of her neckline. A wide brimmed sun hat with delicate faux flowers around the crown tied snugly under her chin, and framed the golden curls around her face like a halo. 

“I see _you_ ar’ settlin’ in just fine.” She said with a lilt, looking around the room. The bed had been made, and the luggage case tucked underneath the bed with enough room to accommodate the backpack, too. Her clothes had been stored in the small, hip-height drawer in the closet, but suddenly, despite how put away most of her things were, she felt a little raggedy. Bowls soaked in a half assed spray of dish soap from last night’s mac and cheese party, were still soaking in the sink. The kitchen and hall really _could_ use a sweep, and Boupha was a little _more_ mortified looking at her current job set up. Due to how long she’d been on hiatus the computers looked janky and strung about like she had thrown it all together last minute. God, ‘my work is online’. She announced that just right-on-out-there to everyone, and now Flare could see her Admin server pulled up on Animal Crossing. 

Embarrassed, Boupha laughed and nodded, “Ahaha- Yeah…” She watched Flare make her way in, and fluff up the boring grey pillow she’d tossed onto the couch in front of the bed, before sitting down, and settling in. It was only after Flare really made herself comfortable, that she spoke.

“Tha’s a relief. I could see _alotta’_ folks had the same sort a’ worries you were haulin’, when you were speakin’ for tha’ crowd. Kinda got _me_ a touch, too.” Boupha’s face fell a bit, even as she tried to force a smile. It really was kinda shitty of her to end up with the mic to ask questions, just to end up having a panic attack for everyone to hear at full volume.

_Hi, Flare!! I’m your biggest fan, sorry I can’t say anything half intelligent to save my life! How about I just stare at you more! Better yet, why don’t I make you uncomfortable, then force you to come save me later! Of course that’s why she wanted to supervise me! UGHH!_

“Ahaha.. Uh- ...yeah, not my best moment as a public speaker. You’d think I would have more, _um_ , practice talking to a crowd—I mean, _considering what I do_ to make _half my living_. Sorry you had to step in and save me. If there’s anything I can do to pay you back for that, don’t hesitate. Really.”

Flare sort of hummed, looking up at the skylight and lost on a dreamy thought. It took a few seconds to register that flare seemed to be going over her options about something.

_Wait. She isn’t actually going to ask me for something right. This. Second. Is she?!_

Something seemed to occur to her, then, and her blue eyes gilded back down from heaven, to Boupha. She had that look again. Like a cherub with a secret they couldn’t wait to tell. Dimples and questioning eyes. Goosebumps rolled up her back.

“ _Hmmmm_ ….Maybe there _is_ something you can do fer’ me…”

_Holy shit._

“S-sure. What can I.. do...?”

Flare’s expression turned impish. Boupha held her breath. The moment held, and dragged on, and the air suddenly felt stifling before Flare brought her hands up, and clapped resolutely. It was a soft sound—satin green gloves muffled the clap somewhat—but it was such an unexpected gesture, such an surprising sound, that it sharply broke the almost trance-like state Boupha realized she had been suspended in. She jumped, then blinked a few times. Attention sufficiently sharper, all of the sudden. Flare tilted her head to fit a cheek to the top of her clasped knuckles.

“I _really_ don’ mean to press... but do you happen to hav’ any coffee, or tea…? I feel just somethin’ awful askin ya’ to part with anythin,’ but I’ll confess tha’ I skipped lunch to come catch a word with you. I _promise_ I don’ need any rations, just somethin’ to fill my stomach, you hear. Even water will do jus’ fine.”

_Oh. OH! MY GOD. I’m the HOST!_

“ _Oh, Yeah-_! No trouble, whatsoever! Thank you for making time for me! I have, uh, french roast? And jasmine tea-!” Boupha got up in a hurry, fast-tracking to the kitchen to put some water on the stove, and maybe root around for the rest of those Milano cookies she’d tucked away. Flare dimpled, and bounced happily enough from the couch for her ringlets to jangle together. A litany of giggles seemed to bubble from her just hearing the _word ‘_ jasmine’. 

“ _Oh_ , Jasmine! I haven’ had _jasmine_ in- I just can’t tell ya’ _how_ long!” Flared sighed dreamily “It’s such a romantic tastin’ tea...” 

“I can’t say a lot of people think it’s great for a party drink, but personally, I can’t get through a cup without imagining some kind of scene out of _Alice in Wonderland_ ,”

Boupha ducked under the sink, and pulled the snack out from behind a stack of plates she’d been using to convince herself out of more carbs. Unwrapping the foiled laced paper, she made up a small plate of grapes and cookies as quickly as she could, without trying to come off as frantic. 

“Especially that chapter with the flowers, or the Hatter.”

“Oh, that’s _wonderful_ , Boupha. Just wonderful.” 

It only took a few minutes for the water to come to a boil, but by the time that the snacks were plated, and the mugs were filled and brought out to the coffee table, they’d spent well over fifteen minutes falling into a comfortable chat over books their mothers had read them, and what kinds of foods or drink they’d sit down with to revisit them. However, once back on the couch, Flare sipped her drink as indulgently as a hummingbird, and seemed to regard her more seriously after a minute.

“You were scared.” Boupha hesitated chewing around a mouth full of grapes, caught off guard by the statement. 

“I’m sorry…?”

“The intro seminar. Somethin’ spooked ya’ real bad… not that I blame ya’,but it _did_ scare a lotta people, too....” Boupha frowned, taking another long sip of tea instead of committing to an answer. “It’s a rough situation fer’ all of us, sweet pea. I can’t say much, but I can tell ya’ that. Lotta’ change is about to happen, an’ BlackHat’s right in the middle. All coiled up like a damn _snake_ , too. I wanna be frank with ya’, it’s alrigh’ you’re scared. It’s a stressful situation.” Boupha nodded. 

_What do you even say to something like that…?_

“There’s….a lot going on…” Flare hummed and took another cookie.

“...It’s-- ...It’s not this _place_ , it’s beautiful. Really. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, it’s just...forty days….It’s a long time for this time of the year..”

“Oh..?”

“I...I, um…”

_Is this something I should be sharing? She’s already got so much going on, and so much to do... But… She came here to make sure I was okay. She took time to sit and talk with me, Because... She was worried? I feel like the least I should do is come clean with her…_

“...I’d do anything for the heroes.. It’s an honor.. I- I can’t even believe that I got to meet you! I couldn’t be more...happy to be here after I’ve admired you for so many years, but- there’s a….a memorial I need to be at… I never miss it… I can’t. Not for absolutely anything else I l-love...”

Flared gasped softly behind a closed fist. Boupha barely heard it; too preoccupied by the sting of grief branding the back of her throat, and sliding into the corner of her eyes. After all this time, it was still so raw. Maybe she’d been putting off thinking about what would happen. If there was a reason why she would be held here longer. If there was a disruption that kept her from him. If she somehow fucked the whole thing over by putting other people’s lives before his. Once again. It was a deep, confusing hurt. A soft hand found its way to her shoulder like sunlight. 

“You poor thang’….It’s no wonder...not a wonder, at all…” Boupha blinked hard, and took a hard gulp of lukewarm jasmine to banish the tears that hadn’t come into her eyes yet. 

“ I-I’m sorry, this is so-”

“Now, don’t you apologize. Hush.” Boupha bit her tongue to stifle the bitter taste the tea suddenly seemed to have, and to keep herself from stuttering over half formed sobs trying to claw their way out of her chest. It was hard to breathe again. It was much easier just to be quiet and listen. “...Losing someone is tha’ hardest thang’ ya’ can do. We all know that, and tha’s why we’re askin’ ya’ to stay for the time bein’. BlackHat doesn’t have good intentions for anyone. He’s evil. What he did, we don’ fully understand, but you can bet yer’ bottom dolla’ that we’ll do our best to be here. For you, and all of y’all. Tha’s ...part of why am’ here, to be frank, again.”

Boupha looked up from the depths of her mug to meet a very solemn expression. It looked foreign on her, but then again, Flare must have seen a lifetime of death by now, right? 

_I’m pathetic._

“ Tell me... What do you need?”

Flare was quiet for a moment. “This may sound a tad unprofessional, all thangs’ considered...but, I have it on good authority tha’ you were in the front row of the plaza… if I was ta’ ask ya’, could I maybe persuade ya’ to testify that?”

_Testify...?_

“You mean, as evidence. For the League’s record?” Boupha slowly parsed out. Flare nodded, her mouth pursing in what looked like the slightest touch of shame.

“I know tha’s such a thing to ask of someone in your situation. Forgive me…” They held another long moment together. Just sitting. Considering, and watching for lines that weren’t meant to be crossed. They were really strangers, all they really had between them was a plate of grapes and sweets. It wasn’t anything substantial, but after a moment, Boupha found it enough to be filling—and laughed a bit drly.

“It’s really not…” Her eyes flicked up to meet Flare’s, “Although, I might have to worry about SonarPunk drilling a hole through my head with his eyes again.” It seemed to take a moment for Flare to fully register that joke, but when it clicked a silent grin full of scandal spread across her face.

“That man is permanently a sour grape-! Oh, you _poor thing_! Hahaha! Oh my _goodness,_ I’m so sorry he bullied ya’ so bad- I tried to step in. Honest, ta’ God, I did.” Boupha found enough honesty in the expression to find her own smile.

“I believe you. I think a testimony is the least I can give you for all your troubles saving me from the IT. When do you need me?” Flare snickered into the last of her tea. 

“How about tomorrow. I’ll be out of yer’ hair before you know it, and I’ll hold the boys back.” She smoothed out the front of her dress, and set the mug on her coaster. Boupha, smiled a little wider. 

“They really should make _you_ the number one, if you’re the only _gentlelady_ in this place.” 

Flare picked herself up from the couch, adjusting the hat atop her head.

“Now, don’t mind those two boys. Golden's got half an’ oar in the wata, an’ Sonar’s tougher ta’ get through to than ah’ two dollar steak . I may not have a lead in _all_ of tha’ evidence, records, and criminal justice nonsense in our system, _but_ they trust me well enough to get people where they gotta go—so the only thang’ you’ll have to worry about is whether, or not you want coffee or jasmine tomorrow during the interview. I’ll lead ya’ through the rest.” Graceful fingers slid down her dress now that she was standing. Smoothing the wrinkles in the thin blankets of white ruffled swoops and mint bows out, she came up looking just as picture perfect as she had looked walking in. “We’re doin’ everything to keep y’all healthy and safe. If nothin’ happens y’all’ll be on your ways and goin’ back to your normal lives.” Her eyes pierced her across the room, almost forcing Boupha to believe her. 

“Well,” She sighed, turning towards the door, and pulling a thicker set of gloves from her dress pockets, “I’ll let you get some rest tonight, an’ settle in some more. We’ll talk more about scheduling and all that tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, okay. Sounds good. Thank you, Flare.” 

“Annabelle’s fine. I’ll be seein’ you later... Thank ya’ for the tea.” 

With one last thankful smile, Flare turned on a perfect pivot and walked out, waving behind her. The door slid into place moments after she stepped through. Boupha smiled until she was well enough of sight, then took a breath before finally resigning herself to clean up duty. It was a good feeling, being on a first name basis with her idol. Somehow, it felt comfortable. Personal.

* * *

It was Tuesday, two weeks after the release started, and time moved slower. The monotonous beeping of the 7AM alarm bleeped in rounds of threes, and Boupha turned onto her side with a put-upon groan. Was there a real real reason for getting up at this time? Sitting up in her bed, Boupha reached back and jabbed a finger against the screen in the wall. Immediately, and with a cute little robotic ‘Good morning’ the alarm silenced itself. 

She collapsed back onto the pillow happily, hair sprawled out every which way and even laid over her face. Soft morning light filtered in through the skylight, washing the room in a heavenly golden color. The distant sound of, perhaps, prerecorded bird song was quiet, and filtered through the room. There was half a moment where Boupha took it all in with half a clear mind coming back on line to greet another day of wasting time, before the tranquility was ruined. 

Taking in a deep breath in to let out another weary groan, when she choked—like a large fleck of her own spit went down the wrong side of her throat. She sat up in her bed to deal with the sudden, violent coughing—in a start, that made her go temporarily bug-eyed with panic. It was the kind of cough that shook her body like a live wire, and pinched her lungs closed so hard they wouldn’t expand again. Sitting up, she thumped her hand on her chest, and tried to dispel whatever was making her hack up half a lung. 

Eventually, it calmed down long enough for her to breathe again, and she sat there for a moment to just let her breathing even out into a canter that sounded more normal. Wiping at teary eyes she looked over to the coffee table, suddenly smelling the food in the room. Giving the table a hard look through a heavy breath. She never knew how they got the food in her room without her seeing or hearing, but the food always arrived to her each morning. This was a new development that came with staying here. The day after recording her testimony for the ILH Evidence Archive, and submitting the file footage she managed to capture from her stream to the archive constituents, she wasn’t allowed to leave her room anymore. Breakfast was placed neatly on the table, just as it had been for half a week, now. This morning, it was toast and eggs, with an overly sweet coffee. A spoon and fork were sat next to the plate, neatly. She looked it over cynically, and she settled onto the couch— pulling the table closer with her foot, and picking up the fork to dig in. 

“When do I get to _go home.._.?” She asked herself a little sullenly. 

The room was a _lot more_ automated than she originally suspected, and it only made itself known when she got back from patting herself on the back in the interview. Once that door shut behind her, the joyful intonation of their little robot-room-voice let her know that full quarantine was in full sway, and that she wouldn’t be able to leave the room she was assigned to for the remaining 29 days. It hadn’t spoken at all the first week she was here. It never stopped now.The room announced the exact climate, temperature, and menu for the day like she was some kind of exotic lizard in a specialized tank. The whole “Google home” thing always creeped her out, and now, the room suddenly was the only voice that responded to her like a person. It was an unsettling feeling, even if she knew this portion of the quarantine was coming. It was so quiet, now.

The doctors that came at lunch, now, came in wearing odd gear. Before, they were just doctors, or nurse aids in the standard blue scrubs _any_ hospital had, but less than two days ago that changed too. They came in groups of three, capped head to toe in sealed biohazard suits that were bright fucking orange, and only coming in to swab her mouth, test her reflexes, take some blood for testing, and get out. Their voices were terse. Brief. Very cut-and-dry. 

None of them answered any questions she had about whatever results they were getting. She still tried to be as honest about their questionnaires as she could. This was her duty as a citizen, right? It would only be a couple more weeks of this, and she could call the front desk about wifi, get back on track with Twitch, release a few queued up episodes, and put all of her worries about the anniversary into the anniversary. No big deal.

The lights brightened, automatically and unprompted, and her eyes dilated painfully at the sudden brightness. Boupha growled to herself, and cleared her throat before speaking aloud to the open room.

“Room, lower the lights, please...?” The lights remained. “I’m just waking up... Dim the lights.” The lights remained, and Boupha groaned, taking a hard bite out of the sizable portion of eggs she had been given. The room wasn’t talking to her, _either_ then. 

_Great_. _Perfect. I put my own plans on hold for heroes, and they leave me on read for the orange quack doctors from E.T.—fucking peachy._

Boupha picked up the coffee, irritated, and practically sucked back the overly saccharine sludge. The fact that there were grounds at the bottom didn’t improve her mood. She finished up, and gathered the plates to throw in the sink for future-Boupha to worry about, but didn’t get the chance. Halfway to the kitchenette, the door... _shifted_. The smooth metal pulled like taffy downwards, noiselessly; she stopped to just gape at it. 

“What the _fuck…_ ?” Boupha whispered to herself, the anger leaving her voice and her posture shrinking inwards, as a orb of what looked like _glass_ formed and bowed outwards like a soap bubble. If just watching it wasn’t horrifying and confusing, it would have been sort of funny to look at SonarPunk through what looked like the plastic half-circle window of a McDonald’s play-place. SonarPunk looked at her evenly, a hand reaching just outside to press something, before his voice came on overhead. 

“Boupha Muy. Twenty-three years old…?”

Boupha just continued to stare at him in open mouthed shock, barely breathing. Glancing down at the stacked clipboard in his hand, SonarPunk seemed to find some kind of confirmation on his own, and nodded as if he was talking to someone. After his eyes scanned down a page or two he leaned forward to the intercom and announced, “We finally have lab results back for a proper diagnosis. The league can’t express enough appreciation for all of your cooperation in giving testimony, sacrificing your time for the sake of the greater community, and going above and beyond the call of duty as someone of civilian status. It’s commendable…”

Straightening up, she put the plate on a counter, rubbed at her eye, and pushed her hair back to look at him better. He looked different. Every time she saw SonarPunk, he had the same outfit on. The light blue visors over his eyes, the boxy space-pack on his back- all muddy browns and muted greens made him look like a vintage photo of someone’s ex-military grandfather. He’d gotten a new costume. Navy blue, pressed cloth—like a marine—silver gadgets, and black shoes stuck out to her. 

It was all in the same style he’d always worn, but it was obvious they were new. The same visor, the same backpack-thing, the same expression, but it was all so different. Admittedly, blue suited him. He was so clean cut, that it made her think that maybe he was going to a funeral after he finished up with her. She was so taken aback that she almost didn’t catch his dry mumbling. 

“ ...You _would_ have had twenty-five days left...” He muttered to himself, looking down at a clipboard in his hand. Actually, now that she could start to see him properly, wasn’t he wearing a medical mask, but a clear attachment over the front of his visor that looked like it went all the way around his head, and sealed over the collar of his neck. Weird— _way_ , _too weird_.

“I ‘ _would_ have’? What’s _that's_ supposed to mean?” Unperturbed by her sudden demand, he freed the pen from underneath the clamp at the top of his clipboard and began to write on the top paper. His expression remained unchanged when Boupha got up close to the sphere to get in his face. “Are you _serious_?! Don’t _ignore me_ _right to my face_ , especially when you just rattled off about me _helping_ you-! _What the_ hell _does that mean?!_ ” With a rising amount of panic, Boupha’s yelling snowballed into screaming with all the capacity in her lungs. She didn’t fully understand why, she wasn’t someone who just screamed.

She was dealing with a lot most of the time, but she took things in stride. She enjoyed herself, she talked to people, she was getting out more, and was making a name for herself. She was calling her _mom_ , again. She wasn't holed up in her apartment, and only letting two or three people see her, anymore. She didn’t cry, or throw her hands up, or drink anymore, asking questions that wouldn’t ever get an answer. She didn’t scream. Not anymore. But this was _different_ . This was _scary_. _Terrifying._

She screamed curses at him with an anger that had broiled inside her the moment she realized she was caged without prompt, and he just let her and watched. She screamed so hard for her own justice, that her throat caught again, and what should have been a short cough dove into a deeper sensation that brought her clawing down the side of the bubble, and to her knees. She struggled to sit up,—to look at him—but the air knocked from her chest couldn’t seem to find a footing until the muscles of her throat contracted painfully, and a sticky gasp inward pulled. Once some fraction of oxygen made it inside, her body spasmed, and another fit hit hit. This time, followed by a drippy amount of pinkish mucus that came out in a heave like she just threw up water. She just stared down at it, tears crawling across her cheeks, and whimpering. 

The anger was gone again.

“You’re symptomatic to the spores. If you hadn’t been, we probably would have released you at the fifty day mark. This disease is _new,_ but considering that it's a product of BHO, I would consider your circumstances. I’m putting your case into the external affairs office so that any assets under your name can be appropriately distributed when that occurs. I understand you’re one of the younger afflicted cases, and have been extremely helpful to the League members looking into this case. I came to personally thank you for your service, and ask if maybe you have a will, or last wishes for me to carry out. ” He said, still glancing up and down to note her general appearance. He took his eyes off her to jot a note down somewhere else on the page that apparently belonged to _her._ She paled, looking even more sick. Whatever she _had_ breathed in had certainly begun to show it’s mark. Her coughing had worsened, and so had her difficulty breathing. Her skin was warm and sticky most of the time. There was a pile of mucus and blood in front of her knees, and it happened right in front of him. She couldn’t bring her sanity to believe it.

“...You said I could leave after _forty_ days….That- you were just making sure I was _okay_ ….That- th- This wasn’t anything _serious._ You can’t just _keep me here_ ! I want to go _home_! You can’t-! ” 

“Yes. We _did_ say that.” He continued nonplussed; his eyes briefly met her own, and held them. 

“I understand that you falling ill in an unfamiliar place is not ideal, but we all are suffering. This isn’t just you. This is for your family and friends, and if you love them, you’ll accept that. This for the welfare of the general public health, and if we don’t stop it here, it won’t stop. The other patients have all agreed that the containment of this virus is paramount, and you’re the only one blubbering like a child. We are heroes. This isn’t a kidnapping case, this is a personal sacrifice _you_ agreed to—we all agreed to. I have no ill will to you, in fact, I respect you for putting your all into helping us, but if you go home now, what do you think is going to happen?”

Boupha stared at him, glassy eyed with tears. She knew, but the reality of it was too brutal to accept gracefully or dutifully.

“You were quintessential to our operations. I know you’re afraid, but despite being human, you were a hero. You were a hero, Boupha Muy. While you don’t have any credentials, I’m going to take my own steps to making sure your family is well taken care of—and in any case, we’ll do our best to make things comfortable for you.” 

“... Will I ever get to go home..?” Boupha asked quietly, spirits dimmed and trepidation as hollow as the chill to her bones.

“If you survive without risk of transmission, yes,” He said, flipping back to a previous page, unfazed by his own words, “Someone will come along tomorrow to get you in contact with a lawyer. Group hospice therapy is on channel 35; you can call in using the number listed. _For now,_ your phone will be able to connect to the outside world. Please, get your affairs in order, and say what you must with the time you have. Last wills and testaments are recommended to be completed digitally. We’re trying to minimize panic, but considering your contributions, you should be granted the privilege to say goodbye to your loved ones. Use it wisely, but know that abuse will lead to an early termination. Contact administration if you need anything ported into your room.” 

The door shifted like some kind of living metal, crawling and stretching up and over the bubble until it hit the rest of the sealed frame, then compressed into the smooth but ordinary metal door that it had always been. The room chirped about dinner plans, and then fell silent.

And with that, she was alone again.

* * *

She kept up the charade of being happy at the facility for her whole time there—mostly thanks to Annabelle that second day. But today was unlike any other, and enough of the percolating fear had bubbled over enough to completely forget her idol’s words of advice. She all but punched the wall, panting and staring at the coffee table from her bed. The _food_ was there. Food was _there_ . How? How did they do it? _How?!_ She hadn’t slept _all_ night! 

_How the hell did it get there?!_

“Good morning.” The screen in the wall chimed joyfully. 

“Shut up!” She snapped, staring at the wall before turning away, feeling insane. Yelling was a regret she felt almost instantaneously. Swallowing the loose drainage in her mouth to somehow sooth it was an even worse one. Shuddering off the pain of half-coagulated blood and phlegm sliding down her throat, she sat up—miserably considering options in her head. Maybe she should sleep… but then, again her throat was scratched to hell...and If these chest pains wouldn’t subside any time soon, maybe the best option really was drinking something warm. Eating something. Moving. Making her way to the table, she picked up the mug glumly. The coffee was getting less and less sugary by the day. Not that it mattered, anything was better than the taste of copper, but it was just one of the thousands of little little things she was given no answer to and just expected to waive. The heat did more for her throat than the taste, and breathing over the steam made it a little easier to swallow. The coffee was gone in a few moments, and she wiped at her chin and lips to get the spillage. This really wasn’t what she imagined when she’d idly thought about l long mornings dozing under the skylight. 

The eggs and toast meant nothing to her, but no matter how much water she asked for, it never seemed to wet the back of her throat the way she wanted it to. Even worse, every time she swallowed anything it felt like her throat had been torn to shreds it ached so much. The toast was horror to her, but the small wedges of watermelon she’d been gifted by someone gave her some cathodic relief. Something cold to eat was just as soothing as something hot to drink, if not more so. She chewed an empty rind for a time, knowing full well that today she couldn’t just pretend watermelon and pale sunlight were the only things she had to worry about. Sleep didn’t come easy, and it probably wouldn't until she... did her duty. 

Today, she had to call her mom.

 _...What am I even going to_ say _to her?_

Her cell phone was placed on her breakfast tray, fully charged, slightly left of the coffee saucer. Placed there, carefully. When they had taken it, what they had done to it, _how_ they got it or _if_ they got it and the sickness in her blood was messing with her was a mystery. She looked at it numbly. 

_..What am I even going to_ say _to her…I said I’d be home soon… how can I just…_ Boupha’s mouth tightened. _I could sleep, first._

She didn’t know anything about her condition, and while the idea of putting the news on hold sounded like a better plan than just hugging her knees, and sniffling quietly, the idea of suddenly somehow deteriorating in her sleep in some freak reaction made her sicker than she already felt. The idea of some lawyer with the same face as SonarPunk walking up the path of their house and serving the bad news like a stack of divorce papers was just too horrible of a thought. Too impersonal. Too void. Unfulfilling. 

If she had to go, _she_ had to do it. Boupha Muy was a hero, and she would find enough bravery to tell her family the truth. Her mom deserved everything, and deserved none of this. She would give her closure if that was the only thing she could give her from this room. _Today._ Boupha snatched up the phone with some unburied resolve. It felt cold compared to her own hand. Her finger prints smeared the screen with the impression of steam at contact points, and her overly warm fingertips unlocked the combination. The first thing she saw when the phone opened was Angelica, and the first thing she felt was... sadness. A deep yawning sadness. How long had it been since she promised to call? Looking at them together on her homescreen, arms looped around each other, sparklers in hand, she couldn’t help but want to just bury herself in the sheets of her bed and cry for another four hours. It just wasn’t fair.

Her mom was crying by the end of the call. She didn’t sound like it, but Boupha could just hear it in the way certain syllables rattled. She never liked crying in front of Boupha. She was a firm believer in the idea that as the ‘adult’ she was the one one who had to worry about ‘adult problems’. Her mom was like that for most of her childhood, and maybe that’s just what she was trying to do now. Just like what her _daughter_ was now trying to do. 

It was a long call, but that was a good thing considering what she had to say… and just-- ...the fact that her voice _meant_ something to her.

“I’m so proud of you, Bee. I don’t- Can’t really… _express_ that enough. You always _wanted_ to be a hero, and I- I can’t really—”

“I know Mama…”

“Y-ou just-I got the papers in the mail, and I didn’t—”

“I know, Mama..”

The phone shuffled like it was being pushed into something, and much to Boupha’s rising dismay, a heavy sob echoed on the other side, before her mom swallowed down another choke and returned to the conversation with that same warmth she always had talking about her husband. Boupha didn’t mention it aloud, she just wanted her mom.

Her mom laughed in an attempt to mask some other sort of noise, “You just- I watched you run around in the yard of the Mayard House...when you were five and… and all the pictures you drew me... I always knew. I knew you were a hero, my bumble bee... and now you-” Boupha closed her eyes, just focusing on her voice. Just shaking from the tears she wouldn’t blink out of her eyes. Just folding her head into the top of her knees, and took in the way her mom spoke. The inflections, the microscopic ticks, the emotion. The words. “You’re a hero, Boupha. My baby girl- You’re the hero you always said you be…! I just c-can’t– I c-can’t-”

“...Mama.”

“Oh god….I can’t _hold_ you-…”

No, she couldn’t. There wasn’t anything to discuss about that. There were other things that they had to talk about. When Boupha found her voice, it was a croak broken over by random spits of coughing.

“Mom, li-listen. There’s-s a lawyer-” Boupha held the phone to her chest to block the receiver, and beat her chest harshly. Frustration bubbled up when the words stuck to the back of her bleeding throat. But with a few forceful retches she managed to dislodge enough of the tacky mucus to speak clearly. “They’ll give y-you anything you need. Even if this is…” She swallowed, her frown deepening. This was a horrible goodbye, but she called herself to get one thing straight, at the very least. She had to be the first one to tell her mom, if only so she wouldn’t scream at night asking questions she’d never get an answer to. “...this is a terminal disease…”

That statement hung on the line, in silence, like it was empty.

“What am I supposed to do...?” Her mom whispered, incredulous and without asking for an answer. Boupha didn’t have a good answer that somehow didn’t sound like a ‘ _get over it_ ’. It was a nauseous sort of shock to try.

“...Your _best._ I guess... That’s always what you told me, anyw-”

 _“_ _No_! What am I _supposed_ to _do_?! You were so healthy, and beautiful _two weeks ago_! How could this have happened after only a few days? Boupha-Bee, How could this have happened?! Aren’t they treating you?! Aren’t the heroes there treating you?!!”

“Mo-”

“-Where are they _holding_ you? Why won't they let me _see you?_ ! Why haven’t I been able to call you until now?! What did they _diagnose_ you with?! Were they even going to tell me at all?? Oh, Bee!! Ohoho, BEE! MY LITTLE GIRL!-”

It was all too much.

“MOM, _STOP IT_!” Boupha barely had answers, and there were just too many questions. It was too much to hear a preview of what her mom would sound like after she was well and gone. She dealt with grief her whole life. Lost her husband to a car accident in Mayard, lost her mother to the cold, lost her father to alcohol, and now her daughter was on the phone, telling her she was about to leave her, too. Before her. But it was just too much to hear that reality set in for her, too. They’d just started speaking to each other again last year…

It was just too much.

Tears peeled down Boupha’s already painfully wet cheeks. The line was silent again.

“I’m so s-sorry, mama….” She whimpered into the phone, hugging it to the side of her head like her mom would somehow be able to feel it, “I’m so sorry I j-just left, like I did. _I didn’t know_! Maybe I was some s-stupid kid just running all over f-fucking nowhere, but I didn’t know you were protecting me. ” Boupha was more honest about sobbing now, choking between coughs and hiccups. “I-t-th-though-ght—with dad—I thought- y-ou didn’t s-save—I-I was so mad, bec-cause you wouldn’t _talk to me about it_ , but... but I found his obituary... Dad. _C-caused_ the accident. _He killed f-four people_ , and tha-that’s why we moved…”

The line stayed silent, and after a beat, Boupha took the hint to continue with her confession. Guilt ate a hole in her stomach like an ulcer.

“I-I was so mad at you...I was _so mad!_ I-just- I didn’t _know_ ! _I didn’t know_ why you were so smiley after he died-d…or-r why w-we had t-to _move out of our house_ all of a sudden... or why I got so many b-ba-babysitters so often while y-ou went into t-town… I thought you wer-e happy h-he was gone, and y-you wanted to take me aw-away from every-th-thing he touc-touched. I thought y-you wanted to f-forget him, since you wouldn’t t-e-ell me-” Boupha stuttered over her cries before she retched, thankful she was already practically on her knees when the fit clawed down the back of her throat, her torso jerked with unnatural, contractile spasms that grew deeper the more she tried to inhale. With a horrible choked gargle that gave her nothing to offer her starved lungs, Boupha threw herself forward, and another membranous film of watery, blood stained vomit fell in wet globs onto the floor. Drool and blood dribbled down her chin as she just willed herself to breath and gulp down as much air as she possibly could. If she hadn’t already been crying she probably would have felt them, but the only thing that came into focus was her mom trying to yell something through the phone. Boupha shook from a round of cold chills that ran through her body, and just waited until the receiver fell silent again. Once her breath came back to her, she put her ear up to the phone again, feeling exhausted after another purge. Maybe it was the lack of sleep catching up. There were other things that they had to talk about, first.

“-I thought you... didn’t care... for a _long_ time. I thought you were just pretending to be the mom.. And going out… But it was that family he killed. I didn’t know what happened, but I found out they sued us... and that we lost.” Boupha murmured, the fire and pain boiling in her blood now rather lukewarm, “You had to move us somewhere t-that took rocks for rent... and getting people to watch me... you were really going out to _work._ Or to _s-settle court cases_ instead of-……..of just... _leaving_ … _I’m so stupid_ ….”

There were a lot of moments, living in an apartment far away front the Maynard house, that Boupha regretted. She never knew the full story for so long. She hated her mom for so long, and resented her enough to move two cities away once she turned eighteen for school. Not that her mom didn’t try. She must have tried everything, but it all just looked like bait to her, for so long. For so long her mother’s love just seemed... tepid. Unfulfilling. Impersonal. If Angelica had never thought to ask about bringing flowers to her dad on the anniversary, too, she might never have put an effort into finding his obituary. She would have gone on being bitter towards the only other person who put their all into loving her. Her eyes were too dry to cry anymore.

_I’m the worst daughter in the world._

The phone shifted on the other end, and after a moment, Her mom’s voice come on the other end. “Boupha...my bumble bee… you’re not the one at fault, here. I’m so sorry…” The tone was gentle, and warm. It made her relax half a degree just hearing it.

“I thought... that since you were young I should shield you from how bad things were. I didn’t want you to worry about problems that I inherited from your father, but I think that trying to do it all by myself... made you a very lonely girl… my poor Boupha-bee... I love you. So much. Every day I will love you more and more, because I can’t imagine a better, more stubborn daughter. Do you understand-?”

Boupha shook her head up and down in a ‘yes’, like her mom could see her, and whimpered.

“I don’t know what to do to help, but I will do it. Whatever that ends up being. I’m going to talk with the league. Right now. Is there anything you want me to bring…? Anything I can give you?”

There was only one thing Boupha really wanted.

“C-... Can you just promise to call me again, tomorrow…?”

* * *

The hours passed, calls were made, and the lawyer that SonarPunk mentioned channeled into her room through the TV, somehow. It seemed like the easier option was to arrange a zoom meeting on the computer they knew she had, or just do that freaky bubble thing to the door again, but at nearly 2:30 PM, the room announced that Alan Foster was about to connect to port 167: IE: her room. Suite 167. Alan Foster was her lawyer—an older, retired gentleman that offered his services to the league when he found out about the happenings in the research facility through a special legal aid. He was a respected senior in the business, and took Boupha’s case almost immediately.

He looked like the kind of person who would volunteer to be a mall Santa. Maybe at a hospital. He had kind, sad eyes. Mr. Foster was a good break from all of the aching that talking with her mother brought on, and that was confusing. Boupha finally confessed to knowing about the obituary, told her mom she really loved her, and made amends. It was a weight off her shoulders, and a weight in her stomach that made her want to lie on her side in the dark… or maybe the sun? Everything was just twisted inside, it was hard to identify what her body was asking for when it kept throwing new and tumultuous pains at her.

Talking to her mom gave her some relief, emotionally—some internal happiness she got just knowing someone out there cared about her, but... after that last purge, after she finally said goodbye to her mother, she noticed that something else was happening to her. The cold didn’t leave. No matter how much she sweat, no matter how many clothes she layered, the chills running down her spine slid into her arms like cold packs were being drained into them. It felt heavy, and on the cusp of painful. The meeting with Mr. Foster was a good distraction. He was very understanding, and soft spoken in the way only people from another time spoke. It reminded her of the narrator for the Twilight Zone series, somehow, and the humor hit her in batches. Boupha got her mother’s contact information to him, first and foremost, and then moved onto the other paperwork. They only stopped occasionally, so that Boupha could get up for water or food.

Talking to the TV was an odd experience, but apparently they wouldn't just let him Zoom either, and set up some odd camera thing he tried to describe to her for this meeting. They laughed over that a bit, and made polite small talk over documents for another two hours, before everything was ready for file. Mr. Foster gave her his work number to keep, just in case she remembered anything else she might want to add, or amend to the will. Near the end, she just felt heavy. She smiled and thanked him sincerely, anyways, then fell on her side once he disconnected.

Mom was gonna be alright… Get a cozy pension for her new set of purple hero hearts... Maybe move back to Mayard. Do _something_ to make life happier. She liked the butterfly museum, so maybe she could get a part time job there. Visit all their old neighbors.

Knowing that she wouldn’t be there for it made her stomach prickle unpleasantly. 

Although, maybe those were hunger pains. She hadn’t actually eaten much since this morning. Boupha huffed, and reached towards the coffee table, pawing around for it. When she came up short a phone, she actually pulled herself upright to stare at the empty table.

Where-

She looked around, mindful of a headache coming on. _Did it drop off the table?? I know I put it on the table when... Where the hell…?_ Boupha only found it when she got on the floor to see if it slid under the couch. When she crouched low enough to look at the dust collecting under the couch, something solid in her jacket pocket thwacked against the floor. Boupha patted her front, confused, but immediately recognizing the shape. _What? I know I’m packing layers, but how could not feel this. Did I just forget I put it in my pocket…?? I thought for sure I put it on the table during the meeting with Mr. Foster... God, i’m going nuts... I need to sleep, soon._

With a sigh, she moving her thumb along the keypad on the screen to unlock it. 

It was hard not to just stare at the home screen. Discounting what she was going to do about the channel, or her short film series, Angelica was the last person she _had_ to call—she was the only one she _wanted_ to call right now. But even just looking at her picture was starting to get overwhelming.

She’d crimped her sandy blonde hair for the fourth of July (‘because it’s like fireworks, Boupha!’). She wanted to be festive, and almost cried when the iron nearly turned her head into a fuzzed nightmare. It took half a can of mousse to get it half decent, but they did it, and Boupha shamelessly laughed the entire time. There had been warnings. There had been _many_ warnings about that iron. She was upset for an hour afterwards, but it wasn’t something that couldn’t be won over by bribing her with a dairy queen and sparklers. It turned out to be really fun. Camping by the lake and lighting shitty, cheap fireworks with the bonfire was... really fun. Even with her tongue stuck halfway out of her mouth and her face screwed up, she looked gorgeous. Even if she begged Boupha to delete the July pictures, she always kept _the one_. At some point she kept it for reasons outside of Starbucks leverage. It wasn’t even a very good picture. It was blurred at the edge and half her grin was obscured by sparks, but it was a memory that brought some warmth back into her hands just holding the phone.

There were a lot of voicemail notifications.

_Angel... I’m sorry I can’t just .. come out and say stuff to you, without making a joke out of it—I should have told you shit was getting weird—before it hit the fan like this. I don’t really think you’ll take me seriously if I tell you. Not that I’d blame you, I cry ‘wolf’ like you cry over any movie you watch. You deserved better than that, and I’ll totally deserve it if you blow me off..._

A part of her didn’t want to know. Boupha had been avoiding this call. She’d thought about this call a lot last night. She hated to admit it, but _calling_ Angelica stressed her out way more than the idea of choosing who would be the _benefactor of her will._ Angelica did so much for her, and the idea of what was probably going to happen made her a vacant shell that threatened to collapse at the slightest pressure. There was the chance this situation might be a fluke. After all SonarPunk _did_ say that if she survived this, she would probably be able to leave once she wasn’t contagious. But, then again, the IHL didn’t usually set you up with a _lawyer_ if you caught pneumonia on facility grounds. If people didn’t even want to enter her room to let her know she was terminal, then things leaned more towards the worst case scenario, and this call _really_ was do-or-die.

Walking into that call with her mom with only half a plan really backfired, but she really didn’t think her mom would just _break down_ like _that_.

The general plan was to talk about things calmly, discuss what to do, how to do it, and to tell her about the obituary. Say thank you, _maybe_? It was hard to say what she expected, but her mom had a strange track record whenever she tried to cope with grief, and the _rehearsed niceties_ she always rattled off were more true to what she was _expecting_. She was sad to acknowledge the holes that were still punched in their relationship, but maybe that’s why finally building that bridge was so bittersweet. 

Angelica was a completely different story.

When she moved into Atreno City, she was a recluse. Maybe it was the depression, maybe it was the move, maybe it was because she knew no one, but the days were bleak. College passed at a snail’s pace, and any offers she got to hang out usually just ended up being people looking for a tinder match. Instead, at some point, she just didn’t bother even offering a placid “maybe.” She just let them get mad, stomp off, and never speak again. Coworkers were too busy with their own lives. There was no one she wanted to go home to. It was just such a hollow way to live. 

And _then_ there was Angelica. 

They were in a History class together for one semester and never spoke to one another, but when they ended up sat next to each other in Philosophy II, something in her must have thought they were fated to be BFFs, because she made it her mission to make Boupha her friend. Call it emotional gymnastics or Pavlovian bribery, but getting fed enough Starbucks and coffee cake lured her in enough to stay for the stupid jokes. Safe to say, she didn’t have a chance. 

She was just one of those people who somehow made other people's lives better just by existing near them.

Joking in class turned into a fast friendship, and a fast friendship led Boupha to the rest of Angelica’s long-standing friend group. That group turned into a D&D party, and very soon she realized that she found exactly what she was looking for—a group of people who cared about her. Even with the offer of friendship served up on a silver platter, it took some cautious and deliberate chances to finally get her to take the bait. Angelica had a hard time convincing her that the group actually liked her, and Boupha was painfully aware that that first year was a push-and-pull when it came to Angelica getting her out of the house. That was a rough year. And Angelica really stuck it out, for whatever reason. Some days were easier to cope with than others, and at some point hiding her muddled feelings about dating, or friend groups, or trying to forget waking up to the news that the love of her life, the boy she thought she would marry, was all but a pile of ash, and nothing else. There was always an internal power struggle for intimacy and distance going on inside her, and no knowledge of how to approach it. It was contradictory and _she knew that,_ but she wanted to have friends, and _also_ never leave the house when she had some time to rest. 

Boupha left her old home town behind to leave a lot of bad feelings behind, too. Even miles away, they followed her. Did she deserve to do that, though...? Could she really say she had a _right_ to leave him behind when she already failed him in the worst way possible? It was hard to feel like she had the right to be happy, or feel happy with other people, when they drew her farther from Mayard. 

Yes, she always went _back_. She never left for real, and she dropped absolutely everything to visit him on their anniversary. Jobs that wouldn’t let her travel got dropped. Classes that asked her to be somewhere other than Mayard at this time in the year were promptly abandoned—credits and GPA be damned. Birthdays, and outings were just fluff she couldn’t even bring herself to think about, and the whole thing made her vacantly sour. Dihn was her everything, and she liked to believe she was his, too, even if she gave him nothing that really mattered or saved him in the end.

Did… leaving him for even a little bit make her a bad person? 

Dihn’s mom thought so…

But then again, she never liked her when Dihn was _alive_ , either. That woman called her every name under the sun, and made more up once she ran out. Her son was also _everything_ to her , and Boupha was just some tramp that spirited him away once they hit high school. It used to make her cry when his mom said stuff like that. She at least _faked_ being polite to her when they were just kids, but she grew too used to it for it to reach her at some point. His mom had her own problems she didn’t need to know about, but she doted on Dinh, and most of the time, they seemed happy. It probably made it hurt all the worse when she realized Boupha was the last one to see him alive. Hold him. Say something to her child. She was just upset. Boupha couldn’t hate her anymore, even if she wanted to. She was that sad kind of angry, too for a long time.

Dihn was missed by a lot of people.

He was a gentle soul who always seemed to know exactly what people needed to push in the right direction, and he always had the odd habit of laughing softly at misfortune. And he didn’t really know how to deal with confrontation like her, but that was fine—she stuck up for him, for him.

The two of them always grew up being the equal opposite to one another’s energies. Two peas in a pod. The two musketeers. A fearless hero and a loyal sidekick, with only their quick wits and their minds to turn the forest in their backyards into a bustling cityscape. They were two friends on the same page, of all the same books. They were two awkward middle schoolers crying over the same test the whole class flunked when the teacher refused them a curve. Then two highschoolers who lost most of their faith in the school system altogether. They were best friends for many years, and first loves, for the last two they spent together.

They promised they would always be there for one another, as a duo.

Boupha broke her promise. 

It wasn’t on purpose, but she did. They were young, and Boupha was very rambunctious. Dihn and her did everything together, but he’d had to stay inside for most of his life, with so many pills (that his mom would always seem to use them as an excuse to break up their rendezvous in the woods) that he just got used to being comfortable inside all the time. When she was asked about tagging along to some outdoor concert, she just didn’t end up inviting him along. Dihn just always gave a polite ‘no’ anytime these things popped up, and she was cool with that. He always hated flashing lights, and loud sounds. He needed his medication, and people tended to smoke at these things. It only made sense to just not invite him, especially since she didn’t know the group that well.

Back then, she just liked meeting anyone. It was fun. It was an adventure, and she usually had an excuse to not go home afterwards. Boupha didn’t want for a lot, but she _always_ wanted for adventure. She was definitely the top extrovert of their friend group, and people made comments about how impossible it must be for Dihn to handle such a firecracker. She wasn’t a vain sort of gal, but getting dolled up with a bunch of girls to try and sneak into a concert for someone’s seventeenth birthday was fun. It was a loud night, with lots of screaming, music, and alcohol gleefully tossed around between tents and bonfires. The general fanfare was so jolly it might as well have been Christmas. Her phone ran out of battery at sometime in the early morning, but after happily crashing on some girl’s apartment couch with two other girls, her only concern was just how many pillows she could steal. She didn’t mean to break her promise. She was her own person, and rationally, she knew that he didn’t need to give her permission to go or do anything. He was at his house the whole time, alone. No one knew what really happened. He had a lot of medicine he had to take, but he was eighteen. He was perfectly fine by himself—preferred it, sometimes.

Dihn was an old soul, liked his space. He liked to cook, and sit outside reading. Loved her with all his heart, and he let her know that whether she was out or in with him. He was a happy boy who only just became a mellow, kind and loving man. Something happened that night. There were voicemails of white noise in her inbox that neither her, nor the police could gleam anything from. A fire that started somehow. There was a lot of circumstantial evidence, but only one real conclusion- the old white house they played outside of was gone, and so was Dihn. 

Boupha didn’t know anything had happened until mid-afternoon. 

Coming home never felt as terrible, or as dread-inspiring. The instinctual chill she got looking at the scorch marks on his house, and his mom—that emotionless, strict woman—crying into her hands, let her know far in advance of any police officer that tried to grab her he was gone, even when she ran full tilt to the house just crying for him. 

There was a lot of yelling after that, a lot of confusion, too many things happening all at once.

An investigation happened. It was ruled an accident. The school held a candle lighting for him. 

People started talking.

No one said anything directly to her, but there were rumors that floated, and soon enough all of her relationships went belly up. Alcohol gave her more comfort than people she would have died on a hill protecting, and she couldn’t help but feel betrayed. Once she got out of high school there was nothing left for her, and she more, or less just ran away. Like she was six again. 

If she couldn’t even stay for her childhood sweetheart, then what could she even offer _these_ people. Fake niceties like her mom? Lackluster closeness in the interest of just hanging onto people? How long could that last if she couldn’t even hold onto people she’d grown up with? 

Angelica kind of reminded her of Dihn. She just had light hair instead of dark, brown eyes instead of blue, and was actually shorter than Boupha, but that _kindness_ was the same. That wholehearted ability to just _understand_ was so familiar _._ She was just so uninhibited and earnest, that Boupha just... _wanted_ to tell her. She told Angelica a lot. It was probably _way_ too much, but rather than just humor her, Angelica sat in for the long haul—and then traded her own life stories. Within half a year, she felt more whole than she had in three. 

They both visited Mayard when the anniversary came that year, and Angelica brought a peace lily. There were a lot of dark feelings, and too many tears, but having a shoulder to lean on gave her something to focus on. Boupha felt like fractured glass about to shatter. Birds twittered none the wiser to her grief in the trees, and Angelica merely looked on at the small grave, quietly. Angelica was a solid rock among waves. The calm of the afternoon quieted the bitter taste of her tears once Boupha was given time (permission) to grieve a very dear friend. The sunshine reminded Boupha of Angelica’s hair, especially when it caught in the strands like a glow. Other people had been by, and candles, flowers, and presents sat strung about like the bottom of a Christmas tree. Angelica gave Dihn his peace lily, then came to Boupha and pulled her into a tight hug. Boupha could tell it meant something.

Something scabbed over then, even if she didn’t realize it at the moment, but it was the first step of many Angelica planned to walk with her. 

Metal health wasn’t something she really paid attention to before Angelica, but through some gentle persuasion, Boupha really took a turn for the better. Friends became her love again, and with Angelica throwing so many movie nights, Boupha became an integral part of their small band of thieves (especially since it turned out that Angelica was just stellar at being a great judge of character and the worst that got stolen was popcorn). Birthdays happened, and she came to more of them as time rolled on. Boupha tossed a lot of her old coping habits, went to a therapist someone recommended over group chat, and really took advantage of the school’s free counseling sessions. She picked up writing scripts as an outlet, then. It wasn’t quite as streamlined an experience as she wanted to admit. There were days she wouldn’t shower, wouldn’t leave bed. There were moments that her self-hatred consumed her. There were weeks where she daydreamed about what _could have been_ if she had just said ‘ _no’_ to going out with all of those stupid girls that gossiped behind her back to anyone that would listen.

The empty voicemails haunted her the most. 

He tried to call her, and she was too busy on an adventure with people that didn’t matter. The guilt ate her from the inside like a parasite, and that broken promise came in the form of empty cries made into the night. She never erased them, even after the phone started to break. Some nights, she would just cry back to them, begging to hear even a shred of his voice again. They remained empty. She listened to them all the harder. 

The sting of those silenced wounds hurt, but rightfully so. Time moved forward anyways. 

Angelica took turns buying coffee in the morning with her, and caffeine became her new comfort drink. Angelica called her an addict in some overly put-upon cartoon impression, but pointedly drank twice as much as her. She was a goofy sort of friend that got goofier the more comfortable they got with each other. Boupha probably should have come up with a better idea than just stealing material for 9AM coffee-comedy hour from comedians she found on YouTube, but making people laugh was a rusty talent and she thought she could get away with it. Angelica recognized Bo Burham in a heartbeat and almost made herself sick when she sputtered out “Bo-pha Burnham''. The nickname stuck, but greeting Angelica with a very smart and deliberately greasy “My _Angel_ ” every day was just as annoying, if not more. It was a badge of pride she wore gleefully. A part of why they worked so well was just what annoying lengths they went to make each other laugh. It felt good to laugh after so many tears. 

Was that the right thing to do? At what point did friendship turn into taking advantage of someone? Angelica was just such a giving person... was it ever really right to take? Was it wrong to crave things from her, this kind but jovial person? Was that just wanting to be closer to her? She’d always been friends with other girls, but never had there been another Angelica in her life. The friend. The stone. The angel. How many nights had they spent researching heroes, and gushing over battle sequences on the news? Or setting up the Twitch channel? How many Saturdays were idled away with Netflix marathons, and cafes or day trips to hiking trails? 

Was all of that really just a memory now? It was just something she’d have to call her up and tell she was over and done with? 

This was all she had left. She finally had half a life back, maybe more than one, and she was terminal. Boupha stared at the screensaver on her phone so hard that she caught the reflection of her own hard expression on the screen. Tears threatened to fall again.

 _Was... this what_ **_Dihn_ ** _felt like….trapped inside that house..? Stuck. Helpless. Just trying to reach the people he loved one last time…?_

There was only one more call left to make. 

And Boupha wasn’t sure if she _could_ make it. It felt like she was abandoning someone else.

Something acidic bubbled hot in her stomach despite how bone numbingly cold the rest of her body felt. It stung like venom, and made her raked throat peel. Everything ached, and feeling too cold in just the pale sun near the couch, Boupha retreated back to her bed to nestle carefully in the used sheets. It hurt too much to stay awake any longer. Shivering didn’t warm her up, but sweat stuck to the sheets, anyways. Boupha didn’t have much faith that she’d magically wake up healthy, but putting sleep off any more might make her have another emotional meltdown, or a mental break. If there was even a slight chance she could get out of this by the skin of her teeth, and the heroes weren’t going to treat her, then sleep would have to come first. It was the only thing she could do for her body right now.

Even with the growing headache sharpening behind her eyes, Boupha made sure to plug the phone into her charging port by the bed. She had already learned _that_ lesson.

* * *

_Boupha couldn’t get comfortable. Thrashing and rolling in the sheets. It was a constant trade off between feeling too hot or too cold, but never at a point that either was satisfying, just worse. Sweat made everything sticky, and pain pulsed from her stomach, up her diaphragm. It was just a restlessness of discomfort until a hand carded through her bangs. It was a familiar weight her body leaned into like it was the balm for every hurt she had ever had. She reached up sleepily with her own hand to hold it against her face, adoringly. Disconnected giddiness alighted the pains in her chest, and soon they weren’t even there. She nuzzled into that broad, but gentle palm, and she could almost hear laughter from somewhere. Soft, bemused, just as adoring laughter that called to her. Soft spoken fragments of nonsensical words floated through her mind’s eye, unknown, but soothing and her body went limp under that loose grip just idly playing her bangs. The words that wandered around in random syllables finally came together in a moment, and the clarity of them was remarkably cutting, but fond._

_“Even when you’re asleep you just can’t stay in one place. Can you, B?”_

_Confusion, and recognition were setting off signals inconsistently enough for Boupha not to wake up, but her mind wandered unsurely between the waking world, and the comfort of the dark. The grip over her eyes tightened unexpectedly. Aggressively. Far too painfully, and she choked on a cry she couldn’t make._

**_“--Really would have been nice if you had had enough of your shit together to pick up my damn calls when I needed you to… then again, maybe I shouldn’t trusted a drunk slu-”_ **

_Boupha’s mind yanked her out of the dream before she could hear any more._

* * *

Boupha woke up already shaking from strain. Her body was half contorted from an inability to breathe, and the muscle contracted into a lock that wouldn’t yield. At some time during the night she had gone from bad to worse, and now she was choking on air she couldn’t force in. Her mouth gaped like a beached fish. Shock rocketed up her spine, and through an now adrenaline rattled mind Boupha somehow managed enough sense to lunge for the edge of her bed and keel over the side of it, before another purge rattled through her. The sheer force of it nearly made her eyes roll back into her head.

The other purges were bad, but this one was just... _different_. 

The taste of it was so unabashedly foul. Boupha grew up near forests and brooks. She was familiar with all the pretty and plentiful smells that came with it, but she was also privy to all the particularly bad ones, too. The first conscious thought that hit was just how rotten the stuff smelled. That fermented stink that came along with especially green spring rot. It didn’t make any sense. The only thing she’d eaten that resembled plant matter was the watermelon she had for breakfast yesterday, and none of that had just come up. In place of that was another one of those horrible mucus globs, speckled in greenish and yellow globs of… something, that was mixed together with blood. Almost delirious from taking in so much air in, and crying involuntary tears, Boupha held onto the side of the nightstand and shook. It took a minute of breathing to notice something was amiss. 

The phone was gone.

Her hand floundered around the desk a couple times, slowly, not really believing it wasn’t on the charger. Where she _knew_ she left it. As dizzy and nauseous as she was, she had memories of _putting it there_. Boupha squinted at the desk as the world tilted, and her arm gripped the sheets again. 

_Where- ...No, it was here… I put it here so I could talk to Angelica when I had to-_

Boupha lurched again. Shocked, she sat up.

 _WHAT?_ No _, I just-_

Her chest and abdomen contracted tellingly, and Boupha threw the sheets aside. She sprinted for the bathroom, tripping on wobbling legs and almost slamming into the door before she made it to the toilet. She coughed wetly as phlegm stuck and her throat closed again. Shudders hiked up her spine as another purge hit. It was just as putrid as the last one. Tasting like an acidic puree of thick, green sludge, and blended loose change. Boupha gasped, spine bowing over the bowl with a whimper, and just stayed there. Head to the top of the linoleum. Trembling.

At least she managed to get to the bowl this time. A lot of these things snuck up on her so fast all she could do was shake, but then again, she never had two in a row. This was getting worse. As bad as it was yesterday, things weren’t nearly _this_ bad . Did her condition just take a nose dive in the middle of the night? There were some diseases that did that, but what the hell happened? It felt like someone ran her over with their car, and tossed her in a ditch. It wasn’t just the throat, or the headache anymore _. E_ _verything_ hurt _. Absolutely everything hurt._

Boupha just stayed there trying to regain, or somehow summon, some kind of strength. She’d gotten up so fast that she only felt the crawling ache in her ligaments sat on the floor. Boupha wanted to cry, or maybe just weep in a sad pile there in the immaculate cleanliness of the bathroom. She felt gross. Inside and outside everything just felt grimy, and suddenly the shower sounded appealing, even if she didn’t want to move. Cold water sounded like a blessing, but she thought better of getting up immediately on the chance she might purge again. Hair stuck to the back of her neck, but she waited there. 

_Should it be hot? Steam helped before. Maybe a cold shower when you’re sick isn’t good? Maybe a hot shower, and a makeshift cold compress... that might work. I can’t just sit around and hope I get better, I got to do something, myself._ Without looking up Boupha grabbed the handle inside the shower and shifted it to the hot end. _Right… See if there’s another one. Shower, phone, food-water-rest. That’s the least you can do. You got to call Angelica. This is only going downhill…_

Boupha pressed her head back into her folded arms, and waited. The shower was a pleasant white noise to focus on when all the rest of her wanted to shrivel up. Another purge didn’t seem likely, or at least it wasn’t going to happen right away, and she relaxed a degree as the water warmed next to her. The steam puffed out from underneath the curtain a bit, and after feeling so cold for so long, Boupha sighed, smiling. 

_That feels nice._

Two hands settled lightly on her shoulders. They were small, and very careful with her, but also very sure. They ran in slow circles around her shoulders, and Boupha relaxed even more. Breathing. Taking them in without thought, or care, and appreciating the small jitters that tickled down her spine when the acrylic tips of fake nails lightly soothed over her aching shoulder blades. There was a methodical grace of attention to any unpleasant groan that came from her, and all unpleasantries and possible worries over these sensations were smoothed out of her. They were relaxing her far too much for that and it was so nice to just feel a small island of peace in the middle of so much calamity. Long hair draped over her, and onto one shoulder. It was so alluringly warm. A face hovered just over her shoulder, just far enough out of sight to be noticed, but not seen, smiling widely. Then Boupha realized there were hands on her shoulders, and she was supposed to be alone.

Startling upwards, she yelped, turning around and brushing the lingering sensation of fake nails off of the back of her tacky shirt. The water seemed twice as loud now, like she had submerged somewhere and came up for air. 

As fast as she was, the presence was gone, and with it, the peace of mind she’d held so shortly. Boupha stumbled out of the bathroom, leaving the shower behind to see if anyone was in the main room, but everything remained undisturbed from when she’d gotten up to run out of bed. It unnerved her.

“ _Show yourself!_ ” She screamed, feeling more and more afraid the longer she only got silence as a response. The hush that followed fell like the walls were pressing in on her. 

There was _something_ wrong. 

She couldn’t understand how she _knew_ that, but something was out of place. Most of the room was still dark, save the tawny streams of light that filtered into the room. Things seemed brighter before. _Was it the mirror? How could that happen so early in the morning? Doesn’t the sun rise in the ...East…?_ The daylight was still coming down the skylight, but the longer time went by, the darker she realized it seemed to be getting. 

_That wasn’t… but,_ _I went to bed_ early _yesterday,_ _at four PM!_ _It can’t be twilight_ _. I was just asleep… How can the light be bouncing off the mirror? Maybe it happens in the really early morning, too…? It couldn’t have slept in that long, right? What time is it?_

Boupha looked at the skylight, tracing an invisible path down to the coffee table to try and measure how the light could look the way it did, when something else out of place snagged her attention. 

The food.

The food that always just appeared for her in the mornings was there, like it always was. The same eggs, the same bread, and a cup of coffee---but there were five of them, with a different fruit or side dish to pair with the day’s food. _Five_ of them. Boupha walked towards it stiffly, with a scowl of disbelief on her face. There were five trays. Five coffee cups. Five plates of cold egg, and five triangles of toast soggy under the weight of their own butter. Five trays. All stacked in one, of two, piles. All perfectly symmetrical, and one top of another, like they had spawned in an item to a video game multiple times in the same place. They only ever blipped food into existence in the mornings. There were five trays. An uneasy quell rose on her hackles, and she looked around again, slowly. 

“R-Room, what’s today’s date…?” Boupha asked, indignation wavering. The oppressive gloom outside of the skylight stared back at her.

The screen near her bed lit up with a blue glow as a register to her voice. Three dots blinking as the automated response loaded. Her teeth dug into the lining of her lip. The dial up finished, and the speakers overhead made a clean noise before it responded, “Today’s date is March 4th. 5:46 PM, Eastern Standard Time. Humidity is 12%. Our next three day forecast will be sunny on Tuesd-”

Boupha turned on her heel, refusing to listen to the rest of the forecast, and too scared out her mind to call down any more ‘fight’ left. There weren’t a lot of places to run in a closed box, but she couldn’t listen to anymore of this—at this point she could only tunnel her thoughts . She ran back into the bathroom, even with the screaming pain that ricketed through her joints and up her heels. She slammed the door behind her like the acrylic tips of those ghostly hands were chasing after her and trying to grab her. She didn’t want to imagine them. She didn’t want to even think that they could be hidden in the steam, wide open in greeting. It was the only place she could run. Boupha locked the door behind her. There was still just as much nothing as she left behind. The falsetto cheer of the room’s voice still prattling on about the forecast was strangling the last shreds of her rationality. Although it was mostly lost to the shower thundering against the tile, and partially obscured by the door, it was too fake, too artificial for her to find any comfort in the immediate answer. There was something so _wrong._ Boupha was grateful she could drown out the world here, at least for an hour. She started shucking clothing as fast as the hot pain inside trunks of her cold legs allowed. Everything felt numb. Numb and wrong. It really didn’t matter how hot the matter was, or how she couldn’t feel her own skin after a handful of minutes.

She’d spoken to her mom February 28th, and then Mr. Foster the early evening. 

Either this building’s new tech was shorting out from being forced to accommodate so many people, or she really _had_ been asleep for _five days_. She’d been trapped inside her own body, lost to the world, for five days. Her phone was missing. The trays were still out there. Besides the meals left out in the open air, there was no evidence of anyone coming in to aid her medical recovery. No drips, no IVs, no hospital equipment of any kind. She hugged her knees closer to her chest in the shower. The water hurt, but against all the other pains grabbing her for attention, it was lost to panicked sobbing.

She still hadn’t called Angelica.

The shower wound up being….. a very _long_ one.

Not only to escape everything going on _outside_ the bathroom, but to evaluate everything else she ended up finding when she was _inside_ it. There was a reason the water hurt, and she really should have paid better attention to it. Something was growing in her. Uneven, hard little nodes that bruised a yellow-green near the top of her skin, and even sometimes dipping into a deep purple when they clustered near the forks and junctions of arteries. It was hard to tell what they were, but if she pushed down on them they gave, slightly. The veins on her body were _thicker_ , for a lack of a better explanation—darker—tender. The gentle prodding,and careful mapping was still an agonizing blister that webbed down her uncovered arms, legs, and abdomen. Boupha vaguely remembered hearing someone in biology mention something about blood vessels doing that. Dilating. But this just seemed... _unnatural_ . This seemed more like blood poisoning of some kind. It _had to be more_ than just some kind of body reaction. There wasn’t a mirror in the bathroom for some reason (maybe to make more room for limited storage space) but there was a giant one just outside of the closet at the far wall, and without it she wouldn’t have a full picture of just how bad things had gotten.

A lot had changed in five days. 

It took at least three hours to feel semi-competent, or rational enough to start parsing stuff out, and putting facts into boxes. Then again, panic attacks really weren’t ideal for putting game plans together. The phone was missing, but once the shower switched off, she could have sworn she heard the tail end of the jingle she chose as a ringtone from somewhere in the flat. She was in way worse condition than when she went to sleep. It was more than likely that no one was going to come to her aid if she choked like that again. She stayed there thinking long enough for her hair to be half dry by the time she got out. She felt a lot cleaner, but no less grimy. The complimentary towels were incredibly soft, but it still took some gentle dabbing to get dry enough to leave. 

The hands hadn’t come back. 

That was one of those things she had a hard time wrapping her head around. Had that been real? There was no one in here. There was no reason for anyone to be here. No one even came to check on her when she nearly ate it in her sleep and choked on her own vomit, so what else could it be? She was pretty touch starved... contact starved, actually. Was this just her head and her heart trying to cope with things? Like some kind of sleep paralysis, but awake? 

They _felt_ real. 

Real enough for her to run after.

Boupha snorted, and dismissed the thoughts with a glare. There wasn’t time for this if she had wasted five days. She cried to her mom about calling her, and then blipped out of existence. She had never called Angelica. If she didn’t know then, she probably knew now. She still had to call her. That damn phone had to be around somewhere, but first she had to get dressed into something that didn’t smell like five day old pajamas. 

It took some hovering by the door to finally find enough resolve to open it. 

The room was dark now, and if there was any moonlight, then it was on the wrong side of the building. It was _too_ dark. A _quiet_ dark. Boupha cleared her worn throat with a wince. She tugged the towel tighter, anyways.

“Room, turn the lights on, in full.” The slate where her bed was blinked into awareness, blue light flooding the sheets. With a happy blip, the overhead voice cheerfully parroted the request back at her, before turning the lights all the way up. There weren’t any places to hide, now. _Good. Let’s see what the damage really is. Then clothes. Then phone. Keep your head on, and complete that list. Don’t think about anything else._

Boupha stood in the doorway of the bathroom, feeling cold, and lingering in front of the frame before stepping out into the open cautiously.The room smelled like sweat after just sitting inside the steamy bathroom so long, but the air was drier. The computer may have been a mess, but the rest of the space was so open that there were no visible places to hide. Even on the carpet her footsteps sounded too loud, but no one stopped her. No one stood in her way, and she was forced to acknowledge that no one really _was_ there. It was just her, and this mirror. This horribly lavish, and giant mirror didn’t have a pretty picture to paint.

There were a lot of things she expected, and a lot of things she hadn’t noticed just trying to squint in the stream and dribbling water.

The nodes she saw in the bathroom were peppered pretty much everywhere, maybe half an inch under her skin like a bunch of tadpoles had burrowed under the top layer. The ones closer to the top almost looked like giant blackheads; it was impossible to tell if they were all the same kind of infection just based off of the shape. Some were tiny, and only visible when she squinted half an inch in front of the mirror, but there were at least three _large_ ones on the inside of her arm, and on the sides of her neck were almost the size of walnuts. The skin was pulled so tight it looked like they might burst if she pushed them too much. With no faith in anyone coming to her rescue if something went wrong trying to somehow get rid of them, Boupha tried her best to leave them alone. Even if she just had this weird compulsion to have them gone.

 _God, what_ are _these…_

Boupha shimmied the towel down, concern pinching in her forehead as she traced the latticed network of blood vessels bridging down from her neck to her chest. They were a sick dark color that only thinned out to a normal blue near the skin in her wrist. It mapped out the network of her circulatory system in her chest like someone had fed a syringe of ink into her chest. Or several. The color wasn’t the only thing concerning. She originally thought the raised lines were the arteries, themselves, but actually looking at the way things mapped out in the mirror made Boupha think that these painful raised beds near the blackened blood vessels were something growing alongside them. The only reason she had thought they were just a part of her circulatory system were because of how woven together they were. Just looking down at them they were too tangled to tell they were different, but looking at herself in a full body mirror, the beds seemed to deviate from the careful network in different places, and branch out in strange directions. Especially her legs... no wonder they hurt so badly, and felt so _stiff_.

Just staring herself down was a little discomforting. She had lost a lot of weight. Boupha liked to think she was pretty average—pretty enough to have new twitch streamers constantly enter the chat, but overall, pretty average—trim enough, but comfortable. Average. She looked _gaunt_ now. Her eyes sunken, cheeks sunken, and her stomach even curled inwards, slightly. Any spare weight in the backs of her arms or the tops of her thighs almost looked like it had been sucked away. Her eyes looked different, too. Dilated, and discolored. Not only were the sclera red from a lack of sleep, but green and yellow rings had formed around the iris of her eyes like gelatinous tree rings. The longer she looked at them, the more she noticed that they contracted over the surface of her eye in an inward contagion. Boupha squinted, unable to really understand it. How her body could just-…. _change this drastically._ How could she fall asleep for _five days_ , and have _this_ be the result?! 

It was hard to tell if she was feeling sick from the nausea, or if that was just a result of how empty her stomach was. 

Getting a change of clothes took longer than it should have, too.

It was safe to assume that she had little to no control over her life, but that probably didn’t excuse tearing the room to shreds. It was a really nice room that was just finished maybe three weeks ago, but she came back into it from the closet just _seething_. Everything annoyed her. Everywhere things just continued to get worse. Everyone failed her. 

Everyone. It wasn’t just _this_ it was everyone. _Everyone!_

The _Heroes_ had basically asked her to come here to die, and she was enough of a sap to _buy into_ the idea and banking on them maybe helping her, too! Maybe, because they were supposed to be _heroes_! God forbid they actually try to feed her some antibiotics, or something! Really fucking _awesome_ to just have tea, and bounce after getting what they _really_ wanted! Really was great to learn after so many hours of daydreaming, and idolizing these people they were just as shitty as absolutely everything else!

Her _dad_ couldn’t be bothered to just _leave the bar behind_ and not completely ruin two families trying to throw back a few shots.

Her _mom_ couldn’t be bothered to even sit her down about _the constant thought that following her every fucking move growing up_ , either! Her kid had to go out and find the real situation in some crumbling newspaper in a back alley library archive! Did she have to be so fucking _passive_ that it took her going into _god damn hospice care_ to squeeze some modicum of realization out of her?! What kind of joke was _that_?!

Her _friends_ left her behind when Dihn died—like _they_ weren’t the ones who _ripped her away from him!_ Like any _one_ of them did anything better _to help_! Like they hated _her_ more than they _loved_ him, and _everyone_ had a ball just laughing at her, and calling her a killer when she had looked into their eyes, and traded stories over cherry vodka _that same night!!_

_And What about Dihn??!_ Why had he just called her?! Why did he leave her to sharks when he knew he was so fragile?! What did he do to cause that fire, and _why_ did he have to just... Leave like everyone else?!

Boupha screamed in rage, tearing bed sheets and throwing whatever she could get her hands on at the mirror, or into walls. Angry tears streamed down her face, heaving sobs between screams despite how much pain irritating the lines up her arms caused her. The glass didn’t even shatter. It didn’t matter. None of this _mattered._ This was all _shit._

IT WAS ALL _SHIT_ ! ALL OF IT WAS _SHIT!_ ONE MORE _SHIT THING_ TO ADD TO A _CHAIN OF SHIT THINGS_ TO HAPPEN TO HER, AND SHE JUST HAD TO ACCEPT THAT?! CALL THAT CHARACTER FLAW, AND GROW FROM IT?! SHE WAS FUCKING DYING!

_Why did I even think that anyone was ever going to do MORE than what was convenient for them?! WHY. WHY?! Why do I always just have to choke down the short end of the stick ALL THE TIME, and get surprised when I choke. WHY!? WHY?! I HAD THINGS I WANTED TO DO! I have people I want to go HOME to! I have people I love, and I’m supposed to just nod my head and say ‘of course’?!?_

Boupha threw her head back and screamed.

“How can I just be _okay_ with this!? How can you just ask me to be _okay_ with this?! Is anyone even LISTENING??! Please!! I c-can’t do this!! Please don’t just-” Boupha’s voice broke, “Please… Don’t just leave me here. Please don’t just leave me here... Please, at least just _talk_ to me…”

She was angry. Angry, and pleading, and completely at a loss for what to do. She was trapped, and she was alone, and she just wanted to have someone come in and tell her _everything was fine_ , and she was going to be alright, and that this was just her acting out. She needed someone. She needed anyone to just talk to her. She needed some shred of help, and this wasn’t something she could just _do_ on her own. She was sacred out of her mind.

The tablet at the side of her bed blinked awake with a blue blip, before it spoke. “What would you like to talk about…?” It chirped over the loudspeakers overhead. Boupha just stared at it, gobsmacked. Her face morphed from pleading to full fledged despair. She sank to her knees. The robotic assistant continued on, without her. "Today at 10:00 AM Eastern Standard Times, Group therapy will be available for call in to channel 35. Specific coordinative efforts are being reached for third party firms, but a lawyer will be made available to you to finalize any requests for route of burial, terms of last rites, or funeral arrangements, upon request. Movies, and self-help books are available for port, upon request. If there are any special requests, a form may be completed for submission to the front desk using this room’s navigational tablet. Would you like to choose an action from this list..?”

Boupha sobbed, shaking her head. She clasped her hands over her ears, and tried to block out the fake cheer of the room’s AI.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that response, could you please repeat?”

The blue light over her sheets blinked in a circle to signal it was listening to her. It was the only thing listening to her. Unfulfilling. Boupha grabbed the carpet, bowing her head into the floor and just wishing she could evaporate out of this situation- someway. Somehow. A silent whine hissed up her ruined throat. The blue cycle finished, but hearing nothing the AI did as protocol demanded, and reasked the assigned for a directive. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that response, could you please repeat?”

It finally set in that she was trapped. That was all there really was to it. 

She was so mad at all the people in her life, but could she blame them for walking here? Could she toss off her own blame, and discard the responsibility that came with how happily she danced into this tomb to make things easier for her, or was that just making things worse? It was incredibly impersonal. Anger without a proper target. The blue light tinkled through it’s circular, listening cycle and Boupha cried pitifully, shaking her head, and mushing it into the floor. She couldn’t take this anymore. No one was _there_ . No one was there, and she was all by herself—talking to herself, and having this _thing_ mock her while she begged for some kind of human contact. 

“I just want _to be left alone_! Leave me _alone_! _Stop it_!”

“Um- well... I don’t exactly want to spend _Christmas_ by _myself. A_ re you alright, B...?” Boupha froze—head still bowed into carpet, and wide eyed. 

She was alone, and then she wasn’t. It was like someone snapped their fingers, and the one thing she had been ready to beg for was just... there. The paranoia, the dread, and the confusion abruptly vanished like they had been ripped from her, and she was only left with shock. With the presence of another person. The presence of someone with such a beautiful voice. It was someone she knew so well, and it was a voice she tried to hear so many nights listening to that broken phone instead of the dead air she always got. 

The air smelled like fir and cinnamon, and nothing felt cold anymore.

When Boupha raised her head, Dihn frowned.

“Boupha…? I know you’re excited to find the elf on the shelf, but we can do something else, you know. I know you’re kinda competitive with mom, but it's not really fun if you’re just working yourself up- you know? I’m kinda game for hot chocolate right now since she isn’t home.”

The corners of his mouth raised awkwardly, but she knew that was just the face he made doing something he knew _full well he shouldn’t be doing_. Boupha pushed herself up to a sitting position. The lights on the tree blinked, and she caught her own baffled expression in a red Christmas bulb after ducking under a few branches she had been looking up. When she looked up at him, she could see the colors refracting off the pale blue of his eyes. He looked beautiful. He _always_ looked beautiful, and no ugly Christmas sweater could really mask that. 

What had she been doing? Dihn was right, really, the elf was an ‘all-times’ activity! You could pour weeks into hiding that damn thing. The wicked witch wouldn’t let him have _cocoa_ if they didn’t act fast! She clapped her hands together excitedly.

“ _Oh my god_ , I’m an idiot, _YES_! Let’s get to it before she gets back!” Boupha jumped up, bouncing slightly as she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him in for a quick kiss. Well, it was supposed to be—It turned indulgent half way through—but really Boupha had to give the guy some credit. He was cute, and he was just sitting pretty in his tacky sweater, so of course he was the most attractive being to ever live. To be honest, he was also a really good kisser. A _really_ good kisser. From his first, to their current holiday hour-by-hours’, he was just perfect. They were both their first _everything's,_ and somehow he got some kind of _sexy-romance_ gene somewhere that just made him a great kisser. He was such a quiet guy, she couldn’t turn down a perfectly good offer for _any_ of them if _he_ was dishing them out. Mistletoe be damned, she would gladly find any excuse to kiss this guy. Boupha giggled until her laughter puffed against his mouth enough for Dihn to pull away, a little confused.

“God... I know I’m _sexy as hell_ in my ‘ _I_ _'ll-deck-your-halls_ ’ sweater, but I didn’t know this was such a _lure_ for you, D? Maybe I should just buy these in bulk, huh?” Dihn smiled—a little funny quirk that he ended up resting against her temple—laughing as he held Boupha in a gentle sway. His tone was a lot more content.

“You’re just _too_ irresistible, you’re right.”

“I’m starting to think you snuck me in so you could imagine me _decked out like a Christmas elf_ instead of just helping me _scheme._ ”

“Well, Ma'am, that’s just rude. _I_ just want some hot cocoa. I’m completely innocent of all federal holiday crimes and accusations. A bystander, if you will. ”

“ _Pfft_ \- _Yeah, right_. You’ve always been my sidekick! And you’re a weirdo for Christmas! You go full out EVERY year. I bet after all this time it’s finally gotten to a point where your Christmas themed reign of terror will start. You’ll be the next new Christmas themed villain… All to get a sexy Santa, I’ll bet. I’ll put money on that.”

Dihn’s nose wrinkled. “ _First of all,_ the idea of a _sexy Santa_ is just disturbing by itself—he doesn’t need to be sexy in the first place, that’s not his job—secondly, isn’t there already one of those?”

“A sexy Santa…? Yeah, you just-”

“No, no, _like-_ A villain that has the _Christmas thing_. Isn’t there already a Christmas guy…?” Boupha scoffed at him, partially confused, partially offended.

“ _No?!_ There’s a Christmas themed _H-E-R-O_ , but there’s not one for _the villains_! Why would there be? It’s a _holy_ holiday. That wouldn’t make sense. Kinda hard to make a candy cane intimidating.”

“So then-”

“I was just _joking, dummy._ There’s not a Christmas _V-I-L-L-A-I-N,_ for _real_.”

Dihn blinked, tilting his head slightly the more he puzzled that over. “Oh. Who am I thinking of…?” Boupha’s exasperated groan was mostly muffled by Dihn’s shoulder, and he smiled down at her impishly. When he laughed, she smacked him on the butt to get a crumb of revenge, but that only made the silent laughter intensify. Boupha was a little resentful of the fact that she was smiling, too.

“It’s a good thing you’re _cute_ and I'm keeping you. I’d banish you to the shadow realm for such insolence if you were anyone else. It’s _JangleJingle_ , by the way..” Dihn grinned, not at all sorry or upset to get a rise out of her. She was a hero freak since they were kids, and he knew it. Frequently exploited it, _too_ , the little _shit._

“ _Lord, that’s terrible_. Thank god it’s Christmas, so I’m automatically exempt from your divine wrath... ”

“It’s true, you absolute turd. You’ve been saved by the Christmas spirit. You’d be dust by now any other day, but instead I’m going to kiss your adorable dork face, and drink sugary cow juice with you.”

“Gross, but... good? Please, don’t ever say that again. I like to think milk comes from industrial milk factories and not think too hard about the cow’s role in all this."

“Yeah, you don’t.”

“You’re stepping all over my feet again.”

“That’s your fault for being _tall_. It’s a boyfriend tax, Dihn. Now, let’s go make some cocoa before your _mom_ calls me a prostitute for giving you milk, and enjoying Christmas specials, again.” Dihn frowned at that. 

“...Boupha, you can tell her off, too, you know? I know she’s a little _overprotective,_ but you shouldn’t just-” 

“Oh, that old bat doesn’t bother me. Besides,I’ve already made it a _personal goal_ to at least get _halfway_ done with Charlie Brown before she tries to insinuate anything about my family line. Come _on._ ”

“I... Alright, B, but-”

“Ahhh, but _nothing!_ It’s Christmas! I can’t be bothered to worry about anyone but my _amazing boyfriend_ , and _best_ side kick right this second. So, same should go for you! I’m fine! You’re fantastic, and the cocoa is still cold, so we got to go change that!”

“I would, but you’re still on my feet.”

Being the amazing girlfriend she was, Boupha stepped off of Dihn’s feet so he could strut to the kitchen without a fully grown teenager on his feet. Shortly after, Boupha followed after him. Smoothing out the front of her wool sweater before she followed after him in a cartoonish mimic. When Dihn turned around to look at her his pursed lips quirked slightly, and he ducked into the kitchen with a smile. Dihn laughed at _everything_ , especially looney tunes brand slapstick, and goofiness was a surefire way to get him laughing. He was so _quiet_ , if you never pressed him, you’d never know he was such a giggle-puss, but boy was he. It was how she got him to be friends with her, actually! 

He was the old kid on the block, she was the new kid tossing screaming barbies over the fence to scare him. And years later that eventually that led to romance! It was a flawless formula! And right now, with his mom and her _judgement day_ eyes gone, she had a great opportunity for a killer wind up. Boupha went for an exaggerated inside step, and slid into the kitchen, finger guns at the ready for maximum sexy.

“Let’s make cocoa, hot stuff! You wan-” Boupha stopped short, immediately confused when she entered the room alone. Dihn wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t anywhere. “Dihn…? Dude, _cocoa_. Are you trying to _freak me out_ , because I know all your _spooking_ tricks, and I’m not falling for that shit. Not _twice_ dude,” Boupha complained, confused but not really sure _why_ she was alone. Her boyfriend was just there, so this had to be some kind of clap back, right?

The silence dragged on. 

The finger guns dropped once the unease kicked up. No one was in the kitchen.

“Dihn..?"

There wasn’t a real reason to feel _uneasy_. Sure, they lived on a cul-de-sac near the woods in the middle of winter, but there were other neighborhoods nearby, and everything was dripping in holiday cheer (and almost too many lights). However, the house didn’t feel like it normally did when Dihn was hiding behind a door, or pressed against a wall _just waiting_ for her to walk by. It felt more solid, and remarkably unpleasant. She may as well have wandered into a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. It would have been the same feeling.

It felt wrong to be standing in the kitchen by herself just listening to the pipes rattle in the walls, and the snow outside toss. No matter how many lights glittered at her from the mantel, the air soured. There wasn’t a real _reason_ to feel uneasy , but internal hardwiring was picking up on something not right to her. The happy-go-lucky atmosphere had evaporated and left something much bleaker behind. The coziness engrossing them drained away slowly. Boupha hugged herself, grateful for the sweater when the temperature dropped low enough to see her breath puff out in front of her.

Had the heat had been turned off...? Why did the storm seem so much _colder,_ now…? 

Boupha’s eyes wandered over the clock on the oven, but realized there was a series of odd shapes instead of the electric green clock display she’d gotten used to checking. _What…?_ This wasn’t the house she’d run through chasing her best friend for most of a decade, it was a fraud. Liminal space masked as a home. The cold pressed into the house like fingers had slipped under the window panes, and cracked them. It started at the walls, cooling the corners and congealing at the edges, before starting to seep into the air around her, too. Her breath turned into an opaque fog. 

Where was _Dihn?_ The back door? Was that why it was so cold? Why would he _do_ that, though. Why just _leave_?

“Dihn, come one, dude… Charlie Brown isn’t going to wait for your jumpscares, and I’m not getting any more hot chocolate hanging back for you. I broke in, and your mom will kill me for being here all by myself. Come out…?" Boupha peeked her head into the living room again. Tensing in preparation for someone to jump out at her, but getting more confused when nothing happened. The room was silent, save for the snow puffing against the window. It just sounded so empty. The boiler started up downstairs. Boupha frowned. “...Dihn…?”

She walked slowly, peeking into rooms, looking around, and calling for Dihn with trepidation creeping into her voice. The longer it took her to find him, the longer that uneasiness made itself _known_. It was just... _empty._

It was a good ten minutes, before she left the living room and set about. Awkwardly wandering around wasn’t really something she did in other peoples’ space, but this was a strange set of circumstances. Dihn didn’t ever let a joke go _this_ long _._ He wouldn’t also just go like that, either. It was his fatal flaw. He was too giggly to carry a joke longer than two minutes. Even worse, he couldn’t just _hide_ for this long without breaking out into giggles. She knew his limits! He was a god damn _giggle-puss!_ That was his thing! He couldn’t just …disappear for no reason.

 _“Dihn!_ Come on, _please._ You’ve got me, I’m freaked out and I don’t _like_ this!” If someone else _was_ in the house, she couldn’t hear them. There weren’t any small sort of ‘micro actions’ to prove there was anyone around _but_ her. No shifting weight, no shuffling, no anything, just the house settling. She couldn’t hear _anyone_ , or _anything._ There was nothing except her own wandering around, and the task of shouldering doors open. “ _Dihn_ …?”

The den, the entryway, the staircase, Dihn's room, witch’s room, the guest room, game room, back down the stairway. Nothing. There was nothing. 

There was _no_ _one._

Was she _alone?_ Did Dihn go into the _backyard?_? Why would he do that? Why would he leave just out of the blue like that? They stuck by each other. They had plans together. They weren’t _fighting,_ or anything. Hell, they were about to make hot cocoa together and start snuggling in. Had the back door even _opened_ ? She was expecting him to just _be there_ when she slid in to the kitchen, but now he was just gone. _Why would he just be gone_ ? He was _always_ there.

Boupha poked her head back into the den. A small, metallic rattle caught her attention inside the kitchen. She took cautious steps towards the kitchen she’d left behind. “ _Dihn?_ ” She didn’t get an answer, but creeping closer, someone could definitely be heard inside the kitchen, fumbling around with a pot. Creeping around the side of the wall leading into the kitchen, Boupha peeked in. Dihn was at the stove, toggling their old gas stove’s gas valve, and only getting empty clicks instead of the low, blue flame he was looking for. His brows furrowed. Scooting the quart of milk to the side, and wiping the condensation off on his pants, Dihn bent down to stare at the burner, and sighed. 

“ _Dihn_ …?” She asked, cautiously. His attention snapped to her, smiling, even through a bit of frustration tightening his features.

“Stove’s acting up, again,” He explained, “Just give me a minute, and I'll have this up and running! No worries, B.”

Boupha frowned, shifting. “Where did you _go?_ I was looking for you…” Dihn scoffed, but went back to fiddling with the stove. She didn’t feel any warmer, but she felt a confusing sense of relief come back to her. It felt somewhat misplaced. “I _was!_ That _wasn’t funny_ , dude! Where _were_ you- Outside...?” 

Dihn shook his head with a little smile on his face, those soft eyes still focused on his work. He couldn’t have just been _here_ , right? Where had he gone the first time, then. _Why hadn’t he answered her_ ? Why wouldn’t he call for her if they were _both_ walking, together? Why would he just _listen_ to her calling for him. He smiled at her, but she didn’t return it. Just waited for him to speak.

“I _was_ here, B. I always was. Why don’t you get a plate of what’s on the table, and I’ll have the chocolate out soon. Gotta get this _darn_ stove to _start,_ first.”

Confused, Boupha looked around, eyes narrowing. “A plate of _wha_ -” Boupha started. She cut herself off when she saw the dining room. A full table was spread with Christmas goods. All kinds of treats and dishes steamed heartily in the cold air. Turkey, honey glazed ham that glistened with a golden brine, baked vegetables with rosemary, sweet potatoes and marshmallow casserole, yeast rolls that were beautifully puffed, and cranberry stuffing dressed with all the fixings, and all the butter and all the gravy one could pine for atop a luxurious, velvet tablecloth. It was a grand feast. A full table full of wonderful smells, and spiced treats. She could hear home calling to her through the perfume of lavish goodies—such a long shot away from all of the chalky anti-allergy foods Dihn bemoaned—and while it was all too tempting to want to grab a paper plate, and go to town heaping spoonfuls of ambrosia salad, or stuffing and drumsticks onto it, _it didn’t make sense_. 

_This much food_ didn’t make sense, his mom was out to… To… Was it to go shopping? Why? What more could she need? This was easily enough food for ten people to get fat and happy on, and have still too many leftovers to box. 

Why would she leave a _table full of steaming food_ ?

It couldn’t be for them. She _hated_ her. She barely wanted her _talking_ to Dihn, let alone eating with him. Boupha penciled that thought over in her head a few different ways, but even trying to reconstruct the thought, the facts she was juggling didn’t seem to make congruent sense. Dihn’s mom didn’t even know she was here, actually... _right_? He'd snuck her in. Why was this here, _now_ if there were no other relatives over? Better yet, why had she not seen this the _first time_ she came in here. How could she miss the many stages, and smells of a kitchen making freshly, cooked food? It hadn’t _been_ here, she was sure of it, but there it was. She looked back over to him, slowly.

“Dihn…? What’s... happening right now?”

He didn’t seem to notice her confusion, and just continued to fiddle with a stove that didn’t work. “Hmmmm… Not sure. I know we paid gas this month, so it should be fine, but I can’t honestly tell you. _Guhhh_. Piddles, _this thing!_ N _ever_ turns on when I want it to.” A stove that didn’t work. Boupha got uncomfortable, again. 

“Dihn... That’s enough. You don’t have to _force_ something to work. Just leave that thing alone. I’m _cold_ , and I want to go back to what we were doing, before…” Humming, he nodding along. He pulled the oven door open, looking in at the dark interior, before closing it again with a huff.

Without even turning to her, he sighed, “ ... _You_ do”, and went back to the gas burners. Boupha blinked, expression pensive.

“What..?”

“You force all of your relationships to work. It’s not a bad thing by itself—some people don’t even try—but don't you think that might be where some of the _issues_ you have come from…? ” She stared at him, her expression hardening into something slightly more frightened. If she was supposed to answer, then, Dihn didn’t hear it and was _happy_ to prattle on. “It’s pretty normal to adopt behaviors that a group of people might have. It’s a group-think thing, so you know, it’s not all your fault. But you’re not really guiltless, either. There’s group dynamics for the sake of group dynamics, and then there’s what _you_ do. You force all of your relationships to work. Even if you can’t stand the people you choose to be around. I can’t really tell if it’s an admirable quality or not, to be honest. Do you love being the ‘ _friendly one’_ so _much_ that this the only way you can market yourself to other people, or is this something your _dad_ left behind for you to deal with?” Dihn asked with a warm smile. 

The way he spoke and the cruelty of what he was implying were giving her emotional whiplash. He might as well have been just day dreaming aloud about the summer time, or all of the books he was looking forward to sifting through. Boupha was so at a loss for what to say, or how to respond, that she just stared at him, wide-eyed. That was so over the line, it wasn’t even full clicking to her.

“It’s really more confusing that you cry about all the ‘bad groups’ you threw yourself into, really. You accuse them of being shallow, but do you even remember what any of their names are? What any of them ever told you about themselves ? Or did you just assume? Can you really say you were _everyone’s_ friend, if, by spreading yourself so thin and never really getting invested in their lives, you ended up being no one’s friend? I think that just makes you a fraud. Right?”

Boupha wanted to cry. The stove clicked in rapid fire set of snaps, but didn’t catch. Dihn took a break from tinkering to put the milk back in the fridge, giving up on the idea that this would take a quick fix, and not halting any conversion in the process.

“You put a lot of blame on _them_. You just can’t help but dive into one half of all the relationships you fail. But you don’t seem to understand there’s a common denominator in all of this. All you really have to do is take a step back and you’ll really see it. Everyone else can. Your mom doesn’t seem to even know why you hated her so much. And well, how much closer can you get, there. Just expecting people to understand you when you won’t even speak to them doesn’t work though, does it?” 

“That isn-”

“Yes, it is. Don’t lie through your teeth because you’re _uncomfortable_. That’s a coward’s way out. I have to wonder, sometimes...is that why you love me? Predictability? Routine?”

Boupha scowled, anger flaring. “No! Because you’re not just my boyfriend, you’re my best friend! I can tell you anything! You can tell _me_ anything! I wouldn’t trade the world for you, and I love you, but—but what the fuck is going on with you?! I didn’t think you’d suddenly turn into a jackass- What the hell is your problem?”

“ _'What the hell is my problem?’_ We all have our own problems, don’t we?” He drawled. Dihn looked at her, just as sweetly as he ever did, eyes glittering. 

There were days she looked at those blue eyes and just marveled at them. Dihn was one of those rare, few people who didn’t seem capable of malice. He grew from a quiet, withdrawn child, into a soft-spoken prince of a man who either didn’t know resentment, or actively cast it out of his life. Boupha was always the one people pointed at, if anyone ever asked who protected who—and that was true, she protected Dihn most of the time they spent as kids—but Dihn was much stronger than she could ever even hope to be. 

She knew that from years of growing up right next to him. She was his. He was hers. She protected him from the dangers of the world, and he was always there to lend an ear to her heavy heart. But... she didn’t know whoever this was. This man didn’t even seem to understand what he said had any sort of impact. He was oblivious to the hurt cut in her pleading eyes, and deaf to her crumpling heart— in a way he _never_ was . 

Not her Dihn.

The person that might not be Dihn tilted his head a little quizzically. His eyes flicking between her, and the table of plenty, but when Boupha clued into the silent instruction she was shocked to find it picked clean. Well, maybe picked clean was the wrong wording. The table was stripping itself. of flesh, of substance, and recognition of any kind—the turkey and ham eroded down to spore molds and dry bones that couldn’t even be boiled down for a salvageable broth, the sweet potatoes congealed into some heinous puddle of festering black goo, inside the ornate stomach of some fine gold china piece green puffs of molded crumbs formed on top of the previously pristine gravy—and all the goods and special treats she looked at with such an adoring eye fell away to rot. The two of them watched the steam trails still hovering over some pots fume into something that smelled like winter dry rot, and dead meat. Boupha pulled her hands closer to her, gagging. Dihn watched the event unfold without any worry or any grain of concern, turning his kind eyes back on her, and dimpling. 

It was an expression that no one _but_ Dihn could replicate. She hesitated. He didn’t. Dihn almost seemed to be genuinely taken aback that she wasn’t digesting this well.

“...What’s wrong?”

Boupha looked at him, really looked at him with a discerning eye. There was a rising sense of something _very_ wrong with this whole situation, and something besides the food, stank. 

“Why didn’t you answer me when I was _calling_ for you? You could hear me from here, couldn’t you...?” She asked, slowly. Dihn stared at her from the other side of the kitchen, still smiling placidly. He didn’t blink, but the small movement in his eyes gave the impression that he was looking her over. Evaluating something. She hesitated again. “... Why- w-why didn’t you...?”

With a slow, indulgent blink Dihn returned to his fiddling with the stove. Remaining civil, but shattering her sense of peace. Boupha squirmed. He didn’t even have to do much. Simply by keeping her at a distance, she was getting more antsy. With how impersonal the whole situation felt, she was struggling to maintain her own composure around him. Boupha didn’t feel like she could do much more than shift on the balls of her feet. 

It didn’t feel like she was talking to a human being. 

At the same time, she couldn’t understand how something else could so seamlessly adopt mannerisms Dihn made his own. All the little things she couldn’t ignore. All those tiny inflections you could only see if you were around him every day. They were _all_ there. Dihn walked like himself, talked with the same gentle voice he’d always done, but his words. But those eyes and all the volatile things he cooed at her were just-

It couldn’t be Dihn...

But then, who else could it be?

Dihn was smiling, but his eyes weren’t smiling. They looked like perfectly carved ice instead of their warm spring blue tones. They turned upwards, like he was trying to remember, and wistfully mumbled into the air, “Ahh-hh. hmmm… Perhaps, I was too busy calling _you_ , B.”

Without opening his eyes his long fingers danced over the stove top, and he tapped his fingers on the tops of knobs, before choosing the correct one, and giving it another try. With a satisfying _snap_ , the blue flame of the old gas stove finally sparkled to life. He turned back towards her as if to share the small victory with her; the pensive cruelty in his face evaporating. Dihn’s eyes alight with satisfaction, brightened up, even as Boupha watched him uncertainly from the other side of the kitchen. His cheeks pinched.

“...Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

Boupha stepped back irrationally scared of something she couldn’t see, but could sense. The back of her legs jutted into the cabinet behind her. A small gasp caught in her throat as she watched a spark jump from the burner like a flea, and fizzle. 

“You hear me calling you, now, B…?”

Dihn stood stock still, laughing softly in her direction as the nip of flame caught the sleeve of his sweater, and _caught_. It moved in a flaming riptide up the rest of his shoulder. Eyes widening in terror, she recoiled, pointing at it and trying to snap him out of whatever trance he was in.

He paid it no mind, even when she started screaming. 

Everything was suddenly too hot, and moving too quickly. Fire was _everywhere_. Billowing columns that roared like a train was passing by them. If her hands weren’t already occupied shielding her face, she would have tried to drown out the sound and cup her ears closed. It was so _bright_ that Boupha had to cover her eyes against the ash and sparks, instead. The flames blustered around her, and ate through the roof. 

Dihn didn’t move. He didn’t scream. He didn’t even try to _save_ himself, but somehow—even consumed by flames that now crawled along the tops of the ceiling—she could tell he was still _looking_ at her. _Smiling_. 

“ _Dihn!!_ OH MY GOD, _OH MY GOD_!! _DIHN!!_ _GET OUT OF THERE!_ YOU HAVE TO _MOVE!!”_ Boupha wailed hysterically. 

His skin blistered and peeled. Popping in large, black boils before grease slid down the creases of his arms and subcutaneous fat splintered into black cracking flesh. Dihn grinned at her, even with his eyes long since eaten out by the fire. He was more living candle, than human. Boupha grabbed a vase from off of the rot-streaked dining table, dumping the contents onto the floor as she ran back to his side with animal fear in her eyes. The flames were hot enough to feel fretful tears evaporate off her cheeks as soon as they tried to bleed down her chin.

She shoved the filthy bowl into a filled sink bed with several soaking pans, rattling several metal pans under the force. Water spilled everywhere as she hauled the full bowl out of the sink, sloshing over the brim and splattering near her ankles. She tried to pitch it upwards to try to get enough reach over the wall of fire clawing outwards to reach Dihn only to start choking. She backed up into the cabinets. Leaning over the sink, her shoulders curled inwards as smoke plumed around the chestnut cabinets, and counter tops and she gasped. The ash was thick, and hot. Black and unyielding, and even holding her breath did nothing to stop the rattling coughing fits it drew out of her. The gasping and sputtering worsened, Boupha tried to squint past ash and her own charing flesh to see Dihn. She couldn’t. He was gone. Gritting her teeth, she threw the water with a strangled yell in a useless swing from the vase. The crumbling wall hissed sharply when the water hit, but otherwise, the flames pressed forwards.

His body wasn’t even in a heap on the ground, he was just _gone._

Something more solid than ash caught in Boupha’s throat.

The metal mixing bowl in her hands crashed to the floor. Bouncing and clattering across the tile, while Boupha went into another fit of seizures. The deep red embers eating her arms winked out of existence, and the pale LED’s overhead flickered slightly when she fell backwards and hit the wall. Even gutted as she was, the shock of such a drastic change of scenery alarmed her. She fell onto the floor of the kitchenette with a gargling wail, clawing at her throat, and heaving several times between terrified cries. Wild eyes looked everywhere.

 _Where’s Dihn? Where is he?! The- the_ _fire_ _! THE FIR-_

Boupha’s stomach gave a hard heave upwards, and her closing throat opened. She hiccuped. It closed. She froze, then all the muscles in her abdomen followed in contagion, as another purge hit her full force. Boupha splayed across the floor, mouth twitching open as filmy liquid wheezed out of her in uneven pockets. A nauseating wash of rotting greenery, stomach acid, and blood permeated the air, and Boupha gagged as it slid off her tongue. The more that went, the more that came. Tart copper, molded grass clippings, and pustulous membranes. It tasted even worse than it smelled Blood, soured in bile, dripped loosely down her chin like water. 

She quaked in place, eyes unseeing, foam congealing at the corner of her mouth. Boupha nearly passed out from a lack of air, but still frightened and blistering with adrenaline she forced labored wheezes out like screams. At some point the pain overwhelmed her, and her body lock-jawed. As if she was caught in the throes of tetany, her spine bowed upwards, and popped. She threw up again. It looked pretty dark, like she had thrown up a bunch of coffee grounds. 

Was that _blood_ …? Was that food? It was hard to make a call on that. 

She wasn’t a doctor (and she never would be), but she was aware that she wasn’t herself.

It took a few minutes to really come back and come down from her choking fits. They came suddenly, lingered, then petered out on its own whim. It took even longer to remember the kitchenette, and the unscarred walls. Shorter to remember where Dihn was, and where she was being held for evaluation.

With kinder air came rationality, and with rationality came waves of pained bewilderment. Headaches, and grief. She sniffed, huddling in on herself a moment, before picking herself off the ground. So many memories crossed wires in her head, and each tried to pull her different directions. What was true, and what was reality, separated into two categories with blurred borders. What was that? When had she fallen asleep ? Did she pass out? Had she dreamed that?

Her eyes hurt, her throat hurt, her lower back hurt, her hands stung, and she was soaking wet with the stagnating dish water from the sink, but there _weren’t_ any burn marks. There wasn’t any evidence she had been breathing smoke, or burning alive, but there was water _everywhere_. It dripped from almost everything on the right side of the kitchen, and oily water slid down the walls. Boupha licked her cracking chapped lips, wincing at the taste. Eyes trailed across the floor, surveying the mess. Had she grabbed that dish off the counter instead of a vase off that rotten table…? There were a lot of boxes and items randomly strewn about. The kitchen wasn’t clean to begin with, but it was a war zone, now.

_...What else have I been doing this whole time?_

Light filtered in brightly through the skylight, directly overhead. Noonish, then?

The mess of stomach acid, and jellied blood was easy enough to step over, but less easy to look directly _at_. It was beginning to look less like mucus, and more like something else, but whatever she was digesting on an empty stomach was either too broken down to tell what it was, or it was only half formed by the time she got it out. She was glad to be able to breathe again, but the trade-off was that now, it felt like there was a metaphysical space in her. Emptiness that went deeper than just the sickness in her stomach. Vacancy where she’d always been full. In its place was _hunger_. 

A sharpening hunger, that _flexed_ like teeth, and soon started to completely capture her thought process.

Even cold, five da- Six day old (?) eggs sounded appetizing at this point. They were still there on the table right?

Boupha really didn’t want to get near that mess. 

She didn’t, but she needed _something_.

* * *

_None of it was enough._ She’d walked into the living room, trying to leave the mess in the kitchen behind, and caught the smell of fresh eggs and toast neatly stacked in place on top of the other trays like some kind of bizarre, breakfast _Jenga_ tower. It was still strange to look at, but unlike all the other times when her purges left her wanting to lie down and forget the world, the eggs, and everything else they had left her, rang with some heavenly appeal she couldn’t sway. Not even the foggy memories of that rotting holiday spread deterred her. The first tray was removed from the stack, the coffee was downed, and the eggs were gone in less than a minute. Not even the pain of her worn down throat put a stop to it. Texture and taste did not matter. Despite how crusty the toast was, or how watery the eggs were, she couldn’t find it in herself to stop . 

The more she ate, the more it felt like her stomach was yawning at her insatiably. 

That measly meal was _nothing_ to her. It was a handful of crumbs.

The second tray she was less gentle with. Shoving foodstuffs of any kind into her mouth and feeling no less empty. The voracious sense of loss she couldn’t fill ate her from the inside. The third was gone just as quick, and tossed aside. By the fifth, she was getting worried. They would replenish her supplies, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t just give her one meal a day. That wasn’t enough. That wasn’t _nearly_ enough. 

She had passed out so long, that if you really thought about it, she deserved more. Right? Like a ration back pay. She missed so much, so it really wouldn’t be a problem to take advantage of their ‘port-ins’, right? That wasn’t wrong. They asked her to, so it was fine, _right_?

Boupha grabbed a handful of watery eggs, but stopped shy of her mouth when a set of tinkling noises started up, distracting her. It put a knife in her plans to polish off the trays, and raid the kitchen rather abruptly. 

Her phone. 

_Mom_ was calling. That was _mom’s_ ringtone, right?!

 _The phone is here! I really heard it in the bathroom! It didn’t disappear after all! Was it always here? How could I not see it?_ Her stomach cramped sharply, and Boupha winced. Looking at the eggs she was holding in her bare hand with a renewed sense of repulsion. _What the hell am I trying to do?! Ughhhh ...I’m hungry, but I’m not crazy …_

That thought felt heavier than it should have.

_...I’m not... I have a game plan, and I just- passed out. Probably from low blood sugar. I’m fine, and all I have to do is update Mom, call Angelica, and rest. I just... need. to. focus. on. me. I just have to focus on getting better, and maybe just... Revisit some stuff when I have all my marbles in the same bowl._

Boupha wiped her hand on the bottoms of her pajamas, making a face when she noticed food caked underneath her nails. Her stomach growled despite how bloated she felt. _Okay, never skip five days of meal plans ever again—or try to make up for one third of that, all at once. This is a learning experience… in long list of things that just shouldn’t be done. God, things are a train wreck._

The tinkling bells that Boupha set for a ringtone came in rounds of about six. It was a hopping tune that reminded her of the xylophone she used to have as a kid and it was innocently bland enough to cue her into who was on the other line. Whenever her mom tried to call, she knew who it was in the first five seconds. It might have been a tool she used to put some distance between them before, but now it was something else—something positive. It was almost a week from when she had asked her mom to call her. If that told her anything, it was that her mom didn’t just give up on her. Boupha got up quickly, and ran to the middle of the room, trying to strain her ears and listen for whatever direction the phone had ended up and wobbling unsteadily. 

_I really have a lot I gotta sort out with her… That’s probably something she’s used to by now. U_ _gh, god_ damnit _!_ _GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER! I can’t think of this right now. The phone! Wait- how many rings do I have left? Shit._

Another round of chimes came to an end, and Boupha held still a moment—freezing long enough to listen for the pause between rounds—eyes scanning the tops of dressers, across the floor, and at anything that had even a small resemblance. Once it started back up, she pinpointed the sound to the best of her ability, and ran for it. _Where... where where where- near the bed? It sounded like it was coming from the right corner..._

Boupha scanned the floor, the surface of the bed, the blankets, pillows tossed everywhere, but it wasn’t there. Ripping the sheets off the bed Boupha scoffed in disbelief. Was it behind her? Where was it? It was ringing somewhere in this area, and her window of opportunity was closing. Boupha looked under the bed, and yanked the two bags out from under it to see if maybe it slid underneath, and got stuck. The ringing came to a close and Boupha grit her teeth. 

_Okay. Shooting blind, then. Great. At least I have an idea of where to look._

Kicking the bags away to give herself more space, she started feeling between the slats in her bed. One-by-one. It took thirty minutes to go through all of them, and when she came out with nothing to show for it, she felt up for laying on her side for four hours again. Truth be told, she was exhausted. But after what happened the last time she fell asleep, she wanted that damn phone. She _needed_ it. Lifting up the actual mattress became useless as soon as she realized the line between the mattress, frame, and sheets were all the same structure that were put together like a fake jean pocket.The mattress was just stuck in place. Besides the comforter, so were the sheets. What are they planning to do? Throw out the whole damn bed?

Sighing harshly, irritation building, she moved on to check the back wall, behind the nightstand. Then, behind the bed frame. _Nothing_.

 _Where was it? What, did it just_ walk _away...?_

This was ridiculous.

With a sigh, she picked herself off the floor, and conceded that she’d missed it and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. When her eye almost hit a thin cord, she backed up, and then followed the generic electrical cables up to the top of the desk. It was her _charger_. The phone was on the _charger_.

On top of the desk right next to the bedside.

She stood there for a few moments, gaping at it.

 _It wasn’t here before. I know for sure it wasn’t here! I tore this place_ apart! _How is it just set up here, picture perfect!? I was looking for it! I looked everywhere for it! It wasn’t just HERE! It wasn't... I didn’t I just... imagine that,_ too? _Right?_

The phone was at 100%, full battery. No evidence that it had been moved at all, not even a minuscule layer of dust over the top of the screen. With some apprehension, Boupha tapped her phone open. _131 notifications._

Well. That was both a blessing and a curse. A relief, really.

By the looks of the call log, it was pretty evenly split between her mom and Mr. Foster—and Angelica. She called her the most. A trickle of guilt slid downwards from her heart until it hit her guts like cooled lead. 

Mom probably called her to ask if she had heard from her. If she did, she already kind of knew about what was going on. Ooh, boy. That was going to be rough. What was she supposed to say?!

 _'Hey Angel baby! Sorry I didn't call you sooner, I think I went into a coma, and woke up with only_ half _a functioning brain! But between the_ _sleep deprivation before that_ _, and the_ _accidental_ starvation _I did for five days, and these wicked nasty_ growths _and_ nodes _all over my body_ ** _,_** _I’ve just had my hands full! I’m not even sure what’s_ _causing_ _them!_ _No doc, you know?_ _Nice hotel room thing, though! It’s really starting to mess with my mental health! Did I ever introduce you to my high school sweetheart when he_ _wasn’t a gravestone_ _? Seeing him again really fucked me over enough to flip my shit, let me tell ya,’ Ange. I Mcfucking lost it! Anyways, how are things?'_

Yeah right! _Like I can just say all that shit to her!_ _...I really hope I didn’t make her cry, but I have to focus on staying on task. Yell at me later angel, I’ll be glad just to hear you._

Well, the phone was found. Now came the hard part. Attached to having a fully functional phone again was calling everyone else that had one too. Maybe, Mom should probably come first? As much as she wanted to call Angelica, she was probably having a heart attack. Angelica had a lot of confusing feelings attached to her, too, but maybe it was also—at least _partially—_ to do with Dihn’s _visit_. 

Boupha trembled, a frown deepening the pensive lines in her forehead. All of the things that happened, all of the things he _said_. It was like she dropped away into another reality for just a few hours. The blend between this room and that house was so seamless that she woke up a past version of herself, not understanding where she was and why she was there. Whether it was the pain of the purge, or the water she had been throwing at the ceiling falling back on her, she snapped back to this reality not herself. It took a few minutes to remember everything past the blistering fever, and the sickness rocking her body, but the fact that she didn’t already just know made her poor meal of old toast feel like stone. It was such a sweet dream, and then it wasn’t. It turned into a nightmare.

Was that what hell is like…?

Swallowing in some shallow attempt to make her throat more comfortable she buried those thoughts. After that last purge, she didn’t get that same sense of clarity, and her own breath rattled around whenever she breathed out. No matter how much she tried to cough up one of her lungs. It was really just another thing she wasn’t looking forward to explaining on the phone. Boupha flipped through contacts until she hit “Mom” at the bottom. As it rang, Boupha had the odd thought to get up and go get some water to try to loosen stuff up. So far she hadn’t really been the best doctor to herself. That had to change. She had to just brave this, and get out of this. Maybe she could come out of this for the better, too! Write a book on this _shit_. 

_What better way to write a horror story, than to live one. God bless primary sources. You’re on my shit list, SonarPunk._

The phone rang a couple more times as Boupha stepped around her mess in the kitchen, but when it went to voicemail she felt a little disappointed. _Maybe she's sleeping… But- didn’t she call_ me _? Why did she suddenly just drop off?_ Grabbing a mug from one of the glass cabinets, she held it under the tap while she moved the phone off to one shoulder. Mugs were great, easy to hold. The voicemail box ran, and Boupha stopped the water half way up just to listen to this same mailbox tagline she used to sneer at quietly. 

“Hi. You’ve reached the mailbox of Malinda Muy. I‘m not here right now, but I’d love to call you back. Please leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m able. Thanks!” It sounded too short, now. Boupha took a sip of the water, and spoke after the dial tone. 

“Hey mom. I haven’t listened through the voicemail yet, but I kinda got the idea you called. Sorry if I haven’t been able to pick up. There’s, uh- _something happening_.” _The bumps, the coma, the white of my eyes, throwing up these giant gooey snot and blood clots, the heroes, th…_

A flash of paranoia tickled the back of her nerves, and goosebumps rose up her arms. _The heroes_ … How much of what was happening did they know about? The last time she saw SonarPunk , he had an outfitted costume—complete with some strange pull over mask. A gas mask…? 

Mr. Foster and her had to talk through the television, and they just joked about it, but she didn’t even question why. It made more sense to use a computer, didn’t it? Why wouldn’t they use a computer, especially if Boupha brought her own? They didn’t stop her from bringing it in, but even setting it up to do that one stream had ended up pretty fruitless. It took her almost five hours to get things set up enough to be functional. She chalked it up to the wifi server trying to accommodate so many patients when the facility was so new, but was that really true ? SonarPunk... He called the phone a privilege. Implied that not everyone got one, and that her own could be revoked if she said something that was supposed to stay confidential? 

“Look, something’s really weird with me, and I-”

...But that was crazy, though, right? That couldn’t be _right_ , right? 

They were _heroes!_ They had security measures for this in common law. Heroes couldn’t just _snuff_ someone out quietly—that was _villain_ work, if anything. With how shitty the wifi was, anyways, there couldn’t be enough bandwidth to monitor so many people like that. They were heroes, and that wasn’t something done as a hero. Maybe she was wrong about everything happening. She was wrong about her own mother, so how could she jump to conclusions so quickly?

What about what Not-Dihn said? What about all those people? Did they leave her behind, or did _she_ leave them behind? She only met The Big Three a couple of weeks ago, only had two real sit-downs with two thirds of them for business and pleasure. She didn’t know these people. She couldn’t judge them so quickly, and there could be a reason why all of this was being carried out the way it was! Maybe they’d already lost a ton of doctors… Or maybe antibiotics weren’t effective—like this disease was some kind of superbug. Considering that it was made by the Black Hat Org. that was pretty likely, and she was probably one of the lucky ones, _right_? 

There were so many people... maybe the medical team was just spread thin. No one prepared for this. It just happened. It was a real ‘hope for the best, but prepare for the worst’ situation. Boupha hung onto her words a little, hesitating, but mostly just cursed herself for being so groggy sounding when she finally came up with something believable.

“...I- Just... uh... felt kinda emotional about a lot of stuff, lately. I think I kinda freaked out last time we spoke, and I just, um… Got embarrassed, I guess. I feel like a lot of the stuff I got mad at over the years was just stuff I should have been able to see. I put a lot of stuff on you I shouldn’t have. And other people, too. I know I was hurt, but I shouldn’t have lashed out like that either. That includes yester- L-last week... I’m sorry. I really appreciate you calling me, and I just want you to know that I love you. I really, really love you. Haha, I’ll pick up the next time you call me back. So uh, get back to me... I promise I’m not trying to give you the cold shoulder, I’m just not feeling very hot. Really wanted to hear your voice, and just talk. So...yeah. Call me back. _Bye_.”

_I’ll play it safe anyways…_

Ending the call with a sigh, she took a long drink of lukewarm tap water to try and get the sour taste of worry out of her mouth. She wasn’t wrong for just leaving it at that, right? That was _fine_ , and safe, even if she was just being paranoid. After downing the rest of the water in one swig, Boupha sighed. Still feeling thirsty she decided to get a pot out. The hunger from earlier was coming back with a vengeance, and a cup of water only seemed to whet her appetite instead of fill her stomach. Maybe some tea? Her throat was sore, and the muscles in her mouth were starting to ache for whatever reason. Jasmine green would be good for that, and maybe she could get some electrolytes back in her system—that and it wouldn’t taste like _tap_ water. The tea probably wouldn’t do much for the hypersensitive cords running up her her arms and legs, but it was the least strenuous thing she could think to do.

Tea and Milano was a pretty easy snack. Maybe all she needed was a moment to soothe herself and stop fretting. Boupha bent down gingerly to get to the cabinet she had been stashing all her sugary things in for rainy days, easing slowly onto her knees so she wouldn’t fall. However, when she felt around inside the back end of her hideaway, she only felt the plastic bottle of dawn dish soap, and nothing else. That’s all there was. Boupha frowned. After removing all of the soap, and hand rags, and mini shampoo bottles out from under the sink, it really and truly revealed itself to be just a bottom shelf—cookies or chocolate, be damned and desolate. She’d been hiding them from herself, but not that well! ( _Never_ that well.)

Puzzled, Boupha went over the conjoined pantry-laundry-room-shelf- _thing_ to see if she moved it up near the triscuits, or the giant Bar Snax jar she’d brought with her. Much to her shock (and dismay) the supersized, plastic Bar Snax bucket nearly fell on her head from the top shelf, and she had to scramble backwards quickly to avoid it. Sparkling white pain cramped up her calves. Squeezing her eyes hard as the nodes in her legs throbbed like someone had taken an icepick to them, Boupha let out a thin wail and rode through it. Once the sensation dulled, she opened her eyes to a mess of crumbs, empty snack boxes, and desolate shelves. 

_What the hell?! This place is brand new! Please, can_ _rats_ not _be added to all of the stuff I gotta deal with. I just want cookies. I_ need _to relax. I’m firing off conspiracy theories about the HEROES of all people, when I practically studied them my whole life... and had a nightmare about my past S/O._ _I’m in no state to deal with rats, or much of anything else. I just want tea, cookies, and maybe to call Angelica, finally. Maybe, Mom will call back._

There didn’t appear to be any trace of what had been here, either. If you didn’t count crumbs and dirty washing machines, there wasn’t any distinguishing trace that pointed to rats, snakes, bats, ect. There weren’t any holes in the ceiling. There weren’t any claw marks, or frays that suggested something was nesting in the corners. Nor were there any kind of droppings—but the whole pantry had been cleaned out pretty messily. _Granted_ , she’d tapped into most of those boxes before things started getting strange, and took a concerning angle towards the bizarre, but finding all of the wrappings torn open at the _opening seal_ rather than just gnawed open, was concerning. Whatever it was knocked the laundry detergent over the top of the dryer and smeared it everywhere. Blue scuffs of detergent were as high as the triscuits box on the top shelf. It was a _mess,_ and a mystery how this happened, but _worse_ things were happening, so the point ended up a little less than moot. The carbs were gone. Life goes on.

“...I’m _not_ dealing with mole people. I’m not. I have too much to take in already.” Someone snickered quietly on the other side of the room. Boupha’s head shot around, but the second her face pointed in the right direction, the noise cut— _mid snicker_ —like it was a recording. 

She was so caught off guard she didn’t move for a solid three to five minutes. Just stared at the patch of room she’d heard the disembodied voice resonate from. It was so _close_ to her that the crisp inflection of the wavering giddiness startled her. Unlike the voice of the room, it had a distinct, and present _awareness_ behind it—with none of the filter or muffle of something pre-recorded.

It was _here. With her._

She was afraid to move. Suddenly held captive by her own conflicting needs to choose between fight or flight that it just locked up. The air got heavier. Denser. Chills bloomed across her skin, the hair on her arms standing upright. The room was silent. The corner of the room was lifeless. Somehow she knew she wasn’t looking for something alive. When the stove top in the kitchen hissed at her, the intensifying trance snapped off. She jumped out of her skin, gasping and looking around when the hissing got louder. It took her a second to recognize the sound for what it was. 

_Oh god, my tea! I left it on the stove! It’s boiling over!_

The odd snicker left behind, Boupha just tried to ignore it. She may have had a day-mare before, so maybe she was having one now. Sleep paralysis demons worked like this kind of thing. _Right_? The brain just _does_ stuff? She wasn’t haunted, she was sick and she was going to make an even more dangerous mess of the kitchen if she didn’t act soon, and stop boiling water from flying everywhere.

* * *

She called her mom about four more times over the next two hours. Call it rampant paranoia, but every time she wasn’t immediately speaking to someone, or connected in some way to the outside world, something appeared. Like it was hiding in the corner of her eye. She was ignoring it. Staunchly ignoring it.

It was _fine_.

All she had to do was put it out of her head. Keep it out of her head, and pretend there _wasn’t_ someone in the bathroom again. Always peeking out from a sliver of the door. She _didn’t_ see it. It _wasn’t_ there. It was just the rats. There were better things to think about. Like fresh laundry, and all of the things her mom cooked when she was younger. Soothing things. Like tea.

She probably sounded delusional on the voicemail box, but she had to pretend like nothing was wrong. It wasn’t easy when she could walk ten feet, and see some congealed mess she’d made of the floor (and hadn't bothered to clean up out of spite). But, then again, she didn’t make it easier on herself when she literally tore her room apart in some kind of rampage. It was _doable_. She was currently doing it, but at the expense of a hypersensitive neurosis layering itself on her subconscious. That was _fine_. She just had to ignore it. She could ignore that, too.

When the snickering manifested again she was still in the kitchen, however this time instead of the wall, it started coming out from the bathroom. The door was wide open—just the way she left it, but the lights had gone out at some point. She never saw it whenever she turned to look at it, but _someone_ was _standing_ in there. Determined to keep her resolve to ignore it, she pointed refused to look directly at it. 

It was probably a towel, or the door, or something else, but no one was laughing at her. _There wasn’t anyone here_. She was by herself, and she was _sick_. That was all this was, and nothing else. Another giggle chimed it’s way out of the bathroom, and a hot chill blistered across the hair on the back of her neck. If she didn’t already have a fever and a bunch of tests to prove it, she might think she was catching something. _Can you catch two things at once, or is it a dog-eat-dog playground for diseases? I feel like I heard you can get a lot of shit at once..._

Boupha’s stomach cramped unhappily. She’d almost destroyed her kitchen trying to eat everything out of it. Nothing ended up being safe. With the tea forgotten shortly after yanking it off the burners, her appetite made a sudden return. Everything in the pantry was gone, so she went for the fridge. Limp celery and ketchup was not her proudest depression meal, nor was it even that filling, but the fiber may have convinced her brain it was satisfied for another hour, so she left it at that.

 _I really have to just focus on something_ not _eating, and not hyper fixating on all of my nightmares related to my ex... Calling your mom and leaving voicemails about all the food she used to make you when dad was alive, and how much you miss Maynard, and that time you got sick on saltwater taffy make you sound like you’re losing all the screws in you head._

_Wow. Wait, Dihn is my ex...That’s kinda a weird thought. I always just kinda pictured him always there. We had colleges picked out together, and a… alotta plans… Would it have worked out? Even if I didn’t run off that night...? I thought we were happy, but were we ? Remember being happy, but was I- Without Angelica I wouldn’t be where I am right now, mentally- And I never would have met her at community college if Dihn didn’t...._

Just deciding to cave into her impulse to laze she lowers herself onto the couch, balling up into herself she snuggles back into the cushions. It was _so_ tempting to just close her eyes and drift off. But... After last time she had her own _reservations_. The sunlight was the only thing that touched her and didn’t feel like someone jamming a finger in her open sores. The nodes looked slightly bigger, but it was impossible to tell if that was biased when they all rang off in a web of pain signals when she moved. She was making an active effort to _ignore_ them. The sun was wonderful—the only comfort she really felt against polar sensations of being too hot, and feeling too icy all the time. The golden beams were a blanket that swaddled her body and pulled her pains down to a minimum, so it was very tempting to sleep, but she knew better than that.

_… She left me a voicemail, didn’t she?_

Boupha’s eyes fluttered open at the thought. Angelica probably already knew, but avoiding the conversation wasn't an out. Maybe if she listened to the voicemails, the call would be easier? The luxury of just listening to Angelica’s voice, without the pressure to respond on the spot had its pros. The con end of that same coin was probably that she was going to sound scared. Boupha winced, even if the idea of that made her uncomfortable, she probably deserved it. Angelica was the most amazing person she'd ever met, but she could see through bullshit like glass prism and let you know that. As soon as she saw it. She was such a warm, emphatic person that the blunt regard for any walls people could try to throw up around her was honestly a little jarring, sometimes. 

She was kinda awesome for that, honestly. It helped Boupha in the long run. Closing her eyes, she tried to summon her nerve. Angelica always came to her unafraid, and so bold it was scorching. It was hard to call it anything but _admirable_. Maybe a little inspiring? She was that gutsy, spunky kind of gal you could find in _Nancy Drew_ books and adventure movies. That sort of beauty that never got touched by the grime or negativity of the world. She wore dirt on the bridge of her nose like she wore the eyeliner on her eyes, and she just seemed to have this wild vein of something beautiful and untamed running through her like a circuit. The closer they got, the more she caught herself trying to justify just putting herself out there into the world like that too, but...

 _I'm not Angelica. If anything, I’m her shitty friend who left her on read for a week after being hospitalized in the most hands-off hospital there ever was to exist._ _I can listen to the voicemail box at least, come on. Why is this so_ hard _? She would do this for_ you _! Woman up! You’re not even looking at her, you’re just speaking into a walkie talkie. You have to speak to her. You don’t have a lot of time to say everything. Bank on the idea you don’t get out of this, and blame it on being sick if things tilts sideways, right? It’s fine. Just do what you gotta do, girl. Get up and get to it._

Reaching for her phone like some blind intimidation of an arcade claw machine, she—predictably, at this point—came back empty handed for all her feeling around. Cheek still pressed into the divide of the couch cushion, she blinked blearily at where she had been staring at. It was less than a minute ago. The phone was there on the table. Was it gone _again_?! Boupha sat up. Someone giggled from the bathroom with inappropriate glee, but the rancorous voice cut itself off when she turned around to glare at the bathroom door. It didn’t sound like anyone, but somehow the noise was familiar.

She caught herself and took a long breath to calm herself down. It _didn't_ exist. She _wasn't_ mad. She just got _confused_. That way was fine, she just needed to find it. Turning around on the couch with a flat expression on her face, Boupha looked around and found it almost immediately. It was back on the charger by her bed. Right where she left it last time. 

_Alrighty. Fine. Do that. I'm not playing games with this room anymore. I'm not._ Huffing, Boupha eased herself up. Silently mourning the fact she would have to leave the spot on the couch. Sniffing at the stinging in her arms, she flexed some feeling back into them before hobbling across the room. _God. This is getting worse. It's definitely getting worse... Should I just try to to pull some of these nodes off? They're a lot closer to my skin now_.

A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of her chin, and she half-heartedly kicked a pillow out of the way. Even if the branching phantom pains _hurt_ , it did some wonder for her mood. It could be the emotional turmoils of being restrained to a very lavish version of solitary confinement, or it could be the very real growths affecting her but she had picked up on this weird cycle she she'd been be stuck in. The anger, followed by the fear, followed by the sadness. But even worse was the longing. Anger, fear, and misery could be easily rationalized, but the longing was a growing concern. It went farther than just missing people or contact. In the first week she felt a little bereft at the idea of coming so close to missing Dihn’s anniversary, then distraught when she realized leaving wasn’t an option anymore—or at least it wasn’t considerable until she was deemed well. All of that was normal, _healthy_ even. It was also normal to get impulses. Impulse control was often challenged by conjecture, and most of the time fantasy just stayed fantasy, but after that strange encounter she’d had with Not-Dihn something had changed.

She had a lot of spare time and little device to get some outlet for it without injuring herself further, so moments on the couch just sunbathing weren’t uncommon. However, the paths her relaxed thoughts took were a lot more dark than she really wanted to clue other people into. Especially people like her mom, and Angelica. She felt hungry, just about _constantly,_ and maybe that was the cause. A want for company and want for subsistence mixing together in the worst of ways. Maybe she had a taste for darker genres, but it didn’t ever fully explain why she ended up dreaming about skin. It would usually start off so innocently, too. She could think of food—about her mom’s Easter roast, and lots of baked potatoes with sour cream, and spiced fig and peach pie—and idle on those thoughts for hours. She could marvel at the clear image, and nearly feel the taste just a breath away from her tongue. They were all about meat, in general. She’d entrance herself on the idea of steak, the juice that spilled into green beans when she carved off a slice, the texture of it as it steamed lightly in her mouth, the amount of give it had on her teeth, and just _fixate_ on the details obsessively. Each fiber of flesh. The strings and the cartilage. The strings of gristle holding everything together. The oil and juice that just floated around the platter and whatever it landed on.

Never has she liked meat all that much, but it was just an _obsession_ now. That was fine, too. Dreaming of luxury food was _fine_ , but when the image of the steak started to blur into some amorphous shape of something, the whole personality of the experience would change. It was fine to dream about food, but when those thoughts about food blurred and reformed into the image of someone’s shoulder, someone's neck, it was sort of a red flag. She couldn’t differentiate the thought of cooked meat from this macabre fantasy. Rarer cuts and gouges from some faceless person’s back seemed normal, _somehow_. Gristle and cartilage, veins and strings just had a sharper appeal.

She wanted something. She _needed_ something. Something to ease the ache in her throat. Something to quell that bottomless hunger in her stomach. She needed something _raw_. Pink flesh and facia made her jaw work, and itch to taste something other than stale blood that lingered in her mouth sourly. The gnawing copper taste should have been a deterrent, honestly, but that raw run of her throat only seemed to sharpen that visceral want for something bloody and rare. It was like having some cruel entity hold a treat just out of reach. 

It was frustrating, but comforting to just get lost in. If she lost herself to them it was mindless euphoria. It was bliss to envision running her hands up an undefined chest, or swinging her arms around that faceless someone’s neck, then dragging them down to her mouth. It was so gratifying. To be kissing, to bite and chew, and then indulgently just start tearing things to pieces without any care to what happened. Seamless transitions between lovingly kissing purple bruises into the crook of someone’s neck with fluttering lashes, and sinking her teeth into a clavicle made things seem unalarming. Bone was nothing by a twig to snap, and flesh was the just reward to cure that yawning chasm in her chest. It was almost worshipful. A giddy sort of mania that she only realized she’d been stewing in when she snapped out of it. She fully emerged from her stupors sick with revulsion. Wide eyed, and incredulous, and _drooling_. The comfort and the warmth left, and took with it the comfort of escapism. 

It left behind cold realization. 

There was something so unsettlingly off about those moments that when she came back to herself. Like someone had glazed over her rational brain and tapped into the things she didn’t think she would ever feel calm imagining. They were so entrancing that she wouldn’t realize anything was the matter until she came out of her thoughts, and fully examined them with a fully conscious mind. It was hard to come to terms with when it made her want to go to the bathroom and dry heave over the toilet

Maybe she was mad all the time, and maybe she was scared of being left alone in here to probably waste away—hell, maybe she was touch starved—but she wasn’t _that_ kind of person! She never ever was this kind of- of sicko! This wasn’t _her_ , it was something else that followed her appetites like a bloodhound’s nose. And whatever it was seemed to try to mash all of those cravings for food and intimacy together in a massive, congealed mess of different wants. If she didn’t already feel sickened by the fact that she was having consistent delusions of cannibalism, the fact that she felt some relief being so close to the person she was happy to gore made things all the worse. 

Boupha cringed to herself and reached for the phone. Her hand grabbed for where it was resting on the corner, but when she opened her eyes in shock, it was in the middle of the bedside table, the extension cord stretched taunt. She frowned, slowly grabbing it with an uneasy shake to her hands. 

_...This is getting worse._ Boupha put the code in and the phone unlocked with a soft ‘click’. That image of Angelica and her rose to full screen as the background once the home screen clicked away. _I_ have _to call her… I’m going to have a mental break at this rate…_ Looking at the number of texts and notifications made her want to cry, though. What did Angelica know…18 voicemails, and 113 texts. Angelica’s name occupying a good chunk of the caller ID let her know that at least _something_ got through to her. Just as expected. Boupha relented and gave the idea some mulling over.

_Well.. shit….I'm in so much goddamn trouble with Ange. If I somehow make it out of this with half my sanity intact, she’s going to gain Super Saiyan powers just so she can throw me into the sun. I really have to call her. But then again, maybe it's better if I try to play a bit of catch up with what got sent, first…? I don’t want her to think I was ignoring her..._

Boupha’s hovering thumb redirected to the messenger app, and scrolled up to the last day she left a message. The first couple of texts were from Mom, but the rest were from the group chat. It was mostly just their regular banter, but the more recent they became, the more frantic everyone seemed to become. Lots of ‘has anyone heard from Boupha?’ and questions about contact. It looked like at one point they all arranged to get together for a trip, but after a break in the text they seemed like they were left pretty aimless by something. A few of them suggested just waiting, or leaving things be, but Angelica kept pushing everyone to do something, and not just sit around. There was a pretty heavy consensus that this was something the heroes had to handle. Boupha took in the lopsided chat log’s lack of action, and clicked out of the chat box. She liked them all well enough. She did, but this wasn’t something unexpected. They were Angelica’s friends, originally, after all. They were all on friendly terms, but that’s about where it stayed, and physical evidence to that theory was just a little….disheartening. _Disappointing_.

 _It makes sense... I mean, if the_ heroes _told me someone else was being held in their facilities for_ medical _reasons, I wouldn’t do anything different, either, but still... Angelica’s the only one?_

There were no separate notifications from anyone besides Angelica. She was the only one who sent any check in messages, besides her mom. Well, that stung a little. A flare of irritation bubbled in the back of her throat, and instead of responding to the chat, she flicked to the many bubbled notifications from Angelica's phone number. If they weren’t going to reach out, she wasn’t either. That was _fine_. 

_**New Messages from** : _ _GoodieGumDrops_

With closed eyes, and a heavy sigh she tapped the notification. Mustering the strength to even type out an answer was proving more challenging than her pep talk made it out to be, and looking at the group chat didn’t exactly rouse her fighting spirit. She just stared down the handle. It was a cute name. It fit angel, but she half wished they’d just used their real names. She had to scroll up a ways to get to the last point they spoke, just like the group chat log. Her eyes rolled down the screen. 

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _Hey, bb. How ya doin? U havn’t been on in a few days. People think you’re dead. You missed like,,, three streams or somethin 😝_

_Sent at 10:30 AM, Feb. 30_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _lmao. You stub your toe again? or drop your pen…? Bcuz if so, then RIP your poor suffering fingers and toes. You’re always ramming them into stuff!_

 _GoodieGumDrops:_ _Answer me backwhen you get some ice, ya clumsy._

 _GoodieGumDrops:_ _I won’t forgive you if ur napping tho. It’s high noon, girl. Get up!_

_Sent at 1:32 AM, Feb. 30_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _BoBo-Burham? Sir??? Have you finally left me for the heroes???_

_GoodieGumDrops: Alright, I trust you hav ice for that sick burn, but you’re not THIS melodramatic, and if this is about the toe jokes... I’M leaving YOU. 🙄🙄_

_Sent at 1:45 AM, Feb. 30_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _The disrespect. I thought we had something. I should hav known it wasnt all primroses. I was only ur side chick to all three billion heroes worldwide, u queen. U damn two timing queen. I’ll have my revenge @ ur 1,000,000,000th wedding._

_Sent at 1:56 AM, Feb. 30_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _BOUPHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAA_

_Sent at 1:57 PM, Feb. 30_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _Bouphalalalalalalalalalala~ ! Answer ur phone?? I know you’re having a baller time with ur harem, but please. Send me a good night text. :(((((_

 _GoodieGumDrops:_ _A bitch has feelings, u kno._

_Sent at 11:30 PM, Feb. 30_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _Dude, Okay, I know i was just trying to play, but please answer? Where are you? I can’t even see your handle online, or in the group chat???_

 _GoodieGumDrops:_ _Call Me later, okay?_

_Sent at 11:30 PM, Feb. 30_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _Boupha! Oh my god!! Why is your mom??? Here??? She's calling me. through the door??? What happened to you?! I thought you were bunking with the heroes, so what’s going on?! Why is she THIS freaked out? She’s in the apartment ? Look.I don’t know what to do, I know you don’t, like….have a stable relationship with her, but she’s really upset, and she came here from Maynard, and I can’t just ??? kick her out?? I can barely understand her, but she’s crying over a lot of paperwork and won’t let it go, so I’m super worried?? what’s happening!?? This isn’t funny and I’m really worried about you! PLEASE. Answer me. Call. Text. doesn’t matter. Please just give me some sign of this getting through to you. I’ll handle your mom, but please contact me. Please._

_Sent at 3:30 AM, Feb. 31_

A tangible weight settled in the air. Invisible drapery that didn’t warm her and offered no comfort. Just weight that wouldn’t commit to grounding her. The air smelled like a stale old rug. Things felt so very _heavy_. Her hands shook just trying to hold up the phone, and she sat on the bed trying to alleviate some of the strain. The hinge joints in her fingers creaked like old metal doors, even with minimal movements it took to scroll down the walls of text the seemed to groan and clink out protest. Mom must have gone to anyone she thought could help her. 

That idea by itself was only half registering, but it was scarily likely if her only phone call had been some source material to go off of. Mom saw something went wrong after a few days of going MIA and hit the ground running. To find her.

She was such a polished, orderly woman that it was hard to combine the thoughts together. Thinking about what she must have looked like—frazzled, terrified, bubbling tears rolling down her chin, and overwhelmed with panic—just didn’t match up with the image of her mom. It seemed contradictory. In her mind’s eye, her mom always had that classic, placid smile sown onto her face. She didn't even have a mental picture to tag along with that thought. That must have been an experience at 3 AM for poor Ange.

Your BFF ghosts you for roughly a week, and her estranged mom practically breaks the door down afterwards trying to find her? She basically had a transcript of the whole thing, and she could hardly imagine what must have gone on in the wee hours of the morning. There were more messages, but they moved past the panicking tone of the last message and on to other things. Normality.

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _Hey, so I know you’re not online, but I really just want you to know that I have the gist of what’s happening. I kinda freaked out, and called you so please just, uh….skip two, or three of those voicemails, but don’t worry I’m up to speed!_

_We’re on our way tomorrow, and I’ma rally the troops! 💂👊✨_

_Sent at 11:30 AM, Feb. 31_

_GoodieGumDrops: We’re on our way to come see you, so don’t worry about anything. Get some rest, and stay in bed! I know the hospital freaks you out, but believe me, when I say you got an army enroute! Hang on Burham, I’m coming!😤😖😈🤟🤟🤟!!!_

_Sent at 11:31 AM, Feb. 31_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _Hey Bobo. It’s Ange. So…...the thing is we couldn’t come. I’m super sorry we made you wait! I tried to bust in and rescue you like a knight in shining armour, but the desk lady had to redirect us to the visitor’s service center. We spent like two hours filling out info and surveys, but by the time we were done, everyone was starving, so I let them go ahead to go get food somewhere. The rep that talked to us basically took whoever was left, aside and told us a lot of stuff we already knew. We tried to tell the guy that came over to help, but when he realized we were here to SEE you, he got all uncomfortable. He tried to give us vouchers for somewhere as an apology, because apparently the desk lady didn't know what we were asking, and they wouldn’t even let us near the facility center. Everyone is wearing masks, and passing out little hand sanitizers with Goldenheart on them (I saved you five BTW, lol) and generally pretty worried about infections right now, but they wouldn’t let us in since we didn’t have clearance or hazmat suits. I DID learn you might have your phone on you, though? Call me. This must be scary. I want to be here for you._

_Sent at 9:30 PM, Feb. 31_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _Good morning, dude. Hope you slept well._ _😘✨_

_Sent at 6:30 AM, Mar. 1_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _Hey. If you’re getting these, make sure you’re eating. I know you get stressed and forget, but it’s really important that you ask the nurses for snacks, and stay hydrated to get your strength up. Keep your chin up, girl! I’ll see you out the other side! 😩💫👆☝️👆_

_Sent at 11:30 AM, Mar. 2_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _Also….really proud of you ….with your mom and all that...I kinda heard vague stuff from her about all the stuff she wants to say to you. She’s staying in our apartment for right now? I hope that’s cool. She’s really worried about you, and I don’t think I can just dump her off right now, lol. Don’t want to be a rude house guest! 😘😘😘_

_GoodieGumDrops: If you have one more place next to all three billion of your hero husband/waifus I might have a shot now to weasel into your mom’s heart as the favorit spouse. 😆😜_

_Sent at 11:31 AM, Mar. 2_

_GoodieGumDrops: Hahahahha, Just call one of us when you get the chance. I’m joking around, but for real. I know you talked to her last, but you haven’t returned any of her calls, and she’s pretty upset about some stuff I think might be too personal for me to share._

_Sent at 11:33 AM, Mar. 2_

_GoodieGumDrops: Missing you here! I’m gonna try and start petitioning! I’m sure there’s a lot of folks who want to see their fam, so I’m pretty confident I can work my magic.. 😽😼✨_

_Sent at 11:34 AM, Mar. 2_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _Good night, Dude. I’ll raise hell for ya tomorrow. Promise. 🤟😤_

_Sent at 10:40 PM, Mar. 2_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _Good night 😌_

_Sent at 2:30 AM, Mar. 3_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _Hey. morning. Gtg soon but make sure to take care of ur pretty, pretty face and be nice to ur self!💕😊_

_Sent at 8:30 AM, Mar. 6_

_GoodieGumDrops_ _: Good morning, Bobo. I’ve been going around getting in touch with some people for a few days now, but I got a cease and desist sent to me by the IHL??? I’m trying to gather some info right now, but I wanted to know what’s going on. This whole thing is just NOT vibing with me. 😠!!!! I hate it and I’m frustrated!!!! and I’m kinda mad no one else is so FREAKED OUT about this? I’m REALLY worried about you! 😰😨😫 Sorry if i’m venting into our chat box, but I just REALLY want to hug u! 😭😭😭 OmG! People are just so frustrating!!! 😡😩_

_Sent at 9:53 PM, Mar. 6_

_GoodieGumDrops:_ _Hey Bobo. I don’t know if you're getting any of these where you are, but I left you another voicemail. I uh....Well, I just wanted to send you something if you’re having trouble saying something back. I hope you’re doing okay. I’m doing everything on my end to try and get some updates. Take care of yourself. I know you’ll be out soon. Please just give it a listen, if you can. Maybe shoot me a text. Talk to you soon! And hey, I really miss you._

_Sent at 11:30 AM, Mar. 7_

Boupha wanted to lie down again. The temptation to just slip away again into more unsettling daydreams seemed like the lesser of two evils. After reading that she just wanted to forget about things, and not be any more of a burden than she already was. A slowly, thickening guilt sent flashes of vertigo to her head, and made her feel noxious with despair. The melancholy that followed, was even more miserable to grapple with. She was so busy with her busy schedule of freaking out, and throwing up that she had missed _all_ of this. 

Angel got the group together to come visit. She was looking after her mom, and trying to put something diplomatic together to get to her, and get her out, ASAP... And here she was, sitting on her bed and avoiding the world. Throwing herself little pity parties, and whining about who liked her and who didn’t pass the friendship test when she couldn’t put up enough effort on her own end. She felt bad about feeling that way. Enough to feel disgusted at the intrusive thoughts. Enough to not know what to say. 

How was she even supposed to follow that up? 

It’s not like it was impossible for her to fight her body into finding the phone sooner, but it was getting harder to understand if this was all her or if this funky spore disease had something to do with it. She was half aware of how disoriented she was at all times, but she was still competent enough to move around. It was like having a sluggish filter poured over intense trepidation. The fog of fever didn’t damper her hyperawareness to sound, or the smells filtering through the air, but her head was a heavy weight that rolled on her shoulders and her mind was having a hard time keeping up with all the sensory data flooding in. A waning drain that came with being unable to physically speak to anyone made her spirit stale out. There was too much to fear, to pay attention to, but not enough real interaction in her life to give her anything really substantially worthwhile. Too much, but too bare. All there was to feel was fear, maybe regret.

It still shouldn’t have been an excuse to just _shut down._ She had a checklist. She had _one_ , and couldn’t be trusted to stick to it. And now what could she say?! How do you justify a week o f silence when people think you’re probably dead, or dying with no other way to contact you?!

 _'Hey Angel cakes, I just read through everything, and_ _I’m probably going to throw up for the first time_ _I’ve been here solely based on how_ bad _I feel! Really I don’t deserve a petition when I can’t even bring myself to text you, but wow do I just feel completely sick of myself!_ _I keep reading all of the absolutely_ everything _you sent me and all the little things you’re doing for me, but can’t get the disgust off my brain since you’re absolutely perfect, and you’re worried about me even though I can’t apparently be assed to send you a reply! I miss hearing you speak to me all the time, actually!_ _Isn’t that just peachy?_

 _You’re really the light of my life (the only one, actually), and I want to give half of what you’re giving me right now! God, if we’re really tapping into honesty hour, I really just want to hold you_ _—o_ _r get held, really god knows I’m not picky about what I get from you—and scream about all the shit that keeps piling up on my guilty conscious. But boy does_ that _step over some lines i'm not ready to cross! Turns out I’ve wronged pretty much everyone in my life thus far, and I’m only picking up on that since I’m deathly ill in my sick bed. Anyways, weekend plans??? :)))) Mine are to dissociate from reality, and maybe just drop dead so no one has to deal with me burdening them anymore. <3'_

UGH _!! GOD I’M_ SO _STUPID. Of course she would be absolutely worried about me, just because you hide doesn’t mean everyone else is just as cowardly. I’m a joke! Hook, line, and sinker! Even now, you’re useless! T_ _he phone is in your hand, idiot! Do something about it!_ _Answer her! Just call! Why is making this call so HARD?! It shouldn’t BE this HARD!)_ _She’s Angelica! She’s your friend! She likes you- actually likes you!_

 _She’s out there right now writing god damn petitions and probably running around with a megaphone still trying her hardest to advocate on your behalf!_ Do _something! L_ _ead what she wrote you, check the voicemails she put time into sending you, then call her and answer all the questions you’re ignoring just so you can save face!_ _Come_ on _! Stop being so shitty, and impassive to EVERYTHING!!! DO SOMETHING WORTHWHILE FOR YOUR FRIEND, asshole! Be a worthless, self-pitying jerk, later!_

Boupha scowled, lost in her poisonous thoughts. She clenched her jaw hard enough to irritate the nodes under the side of her chin. They prickled unpleasantly, like cactus spines or fiber glass had been lovingly dusted across her neck and rubbed in to the thin skin.Some part of her felt justified to stew in place a little longer, because it hurt and she felt like she deserved it. But another part of her just wanted it to fade away. For it to all stop hurting her. To just disappear like all of these problems. It was hard to balance boiling anger with feverish unbalance. 

The phone felt like a brick of lead in her trembling hand, but she gripped it hard enough to leave marks on her palm. It was hard to tell if she was actually feeling how heavy the thing was. She’d held it many times before. It could be a product of feeling physically sick and hurting, or it could be an emotional symptom of feeling lonely and petulant because of her own actions, but it was laborious to even scroll. She could hear blood pulsing in her ears in hard taps, but it was about the only thing she could hear besides maybe the fridge in the corner of the kitchenette. She wanted to sleep, but couldn’t let herself go, after what happened last time. She felt like crying again, but the back of her mouth bordered on too sore to actually commit to it, so she only really gargled on some wrathful growl that swirled in her mouth, and drooled out on the exhale. 

_What’s going on with me… Why am I so- ANGRY! Why?! IT’S-_

Was this something to do with her mental health? Isolation? You could go insane if you were stuck in a white room for too long, right? Boupha wasn’t sure, but now that seemed like a very real possibility. She really wasn’t good at any of this. She never was. But Angelica was always there to help her if she started to tail spin out of control. Now she wasn’t here. Boupha’s nerves prickled back to full attention, and fear rose on the back of her arms, and in the hollow of her chest like gooseflesh. The more she thought about it, the less control she felt like she had. The more it felt like she had already slipped and was on the way down. The fear took control, again.

_It's bad, Oh god, I’ve never handled being alone well, but it’s never been THIS bad. What the hell is happening to me…? What the hell is happening to me?! I’m not even TALKING to Angelica. Why is this spiraling out of proportion so much? I didn’t mean for this to happen... Angelica would know that, right? She’s so much better at all of these things. So she would know, wouldn’t she?!_

_Ange… Angel._ Please _... You know I wasn’t just not answering you, right? You know that, right!? That’s why you came to the facility. You know I care about you, right? Were yo- Are you this scared, too? Are you looking for me? Are you looking for me right, now?! It hurts, but I’m alive, and I’m here, now! I got all of your messages! You have to know I care!! Right-?!_

Boupha jumped out of her skin when something mumbled into the open palm in her lap. A nuzzling cheek and a pair of lips that puffed a word and a ghost of a kiss on the skin there. There was a split second she could have sworn she felt breath, and another hand under hers but when she recoiled, nothing was there. Her yelp was lost to an empty, uncaring room. The uneven staccato of her patchy breath spat between his hissing teeth in heavy puffs. When she calmed down enough, she looked down at her phone screen to see that the voice _mumbling_ at her was her ongoing voicemail box not set to speaker mode, she relaxed.

She’d been gripping it so hard, she didn’t even _feel_ when her thumb slipped and hit the tiny icon at the top of her screen. She was so lost in her thoughts that the sensation startled her. It was the phone. It was _just_ the phone. She was alone. This was _okay_. Full to bursting with notifications, it opened right away.

She caught the tail end of an almost muted, “-eighteen new messages. First message,” and she traded hands with the one currently holding the phone, tapping the speaker icon, and wiping her still trembling palm down the front of her shirt. It still tingled, and that unsettled her. It was probably from the adrenaline shock waving through her system. Her hands were jittery enough to watch them shake. She started at them, and then wiped them on her shirt again. It was better to forget it. The first message was from Angelica, after all. 

“Hey Boupha! Just checking in with you!” Her voice was jaunty, swinging back and forth between flirty, and cherry sweet. Her shoulders almost sagged in relief when she heard her. “ _So._ Moving in with the heroes, _huh…? Lucky dogs_ , I thought _I_ would have you all to _myself!_ I won’t forgive you ever if I’m not the sixty ninth person to marry you. I _deserve_ to be your 69th, baby. Call me back, and _promise_ me I get to be the golden number 69. I want to be _immortalized_ in your hall of hero husbands! Flare can be your #1, but I’m your _real_ waifu, and I call 69, and or 420. Either one. I get one, or I get both. Also, I tuned into your stream! Great job yet again, lovely-! Call me _, Burham!”_

There was a slight drop off as the recording cut at the end of the call and the robotic intonation of the mail box started in. 

“ _To delete this message, Press 7. To save it in the archives, Press 1. To--"_

Boupha skipped to the next one a bit too quickly. A hair too impatient. A tad too aggressive. There was another slight drop in the audio, and a small ‘new message’ was offered by the answering machine before the next voicemail started up. To her bereaved delight, it was Angelica yet again.

“Oh, _baby!_ Please _call_ me. I’m all alone in this apartment and it’s _rainy_ outside. I am _starved_ , Boupha. You were my sun, and now the ball of gas that gives me vitamin D in your place is blotted out by all this stupid rain…. and it _SUCKS!_ Please, call me. I wanna complain in _real time_ to you. I’m locked away in the _shitty_ apartment like Rapunzel.” The sound of the phone getting jostled around buffered the end of the receiver. Boupha almost found enough of her regular personality to roll her eyes. Angelica was probably flipping the phone to her other shoulder, and breathing into it. She had a horrible habit of doing that, but continued on like she was determined to push the conversation forward. She put enough fake sadness into her voice to lather over her whole performance, but the jostling and clattering of the microphone ruined the whole effect she was going for. A few dramatic and overly lengthy sighs were given. Great grief, and contrite sorrow were penciled in to somehow summon Boupha to the phone quicker and underscore how much she was completely devastated at being left to just a voicemail box day two of self containment.

“A Rapunzel with a pot full of _mac and cheese_. For only _one_ , Boupha. White cheddar, _Spongebob shaped_ Mac and Cheese. _All by myself_ , with no almond milk. Just shitty cow booby juice because you aren’t here to _remind me_ to do the shopping, and _I already cooked the Mac half-_ As you can tell, I’m lost without you, and I want you to either come home from the war, or send me romantic letters. My poor heart is broken, Bobo.” A fake sob was planted in. Boupha _really_ wanted to roll her eyes, now. " _Broken!_ _Shattered._ ”

Boupha caved into the itch to lay down, and flopped onto her side. Still clutching the phone like it was the holy grail and Angelica was so holy spirit singing mournful songs about not being able to somehow push Boupha’s half of the underwhelming mac and cheese meal through the line. She teetered between a nostalgic warmth blooming in her throat, and a curdled feeling of remorse in the pit of her abdomen. It was a quiet sadness, but one without tears. That was way more than she could hope for lately. 

They had lots of lazy movie nights filled with rude jokes and box-ready meals. They usually wound up having ‘sleepovers' piled on top of each other on the living room couch while trying to binge an entire series of something or another in one night. The flirtatious overtones were just part of their many shits and giggles. Tongue and cheek humor. Those nights, in all honesty, were not that long ago, but it was a weekly ritual that she had gone without for too long. Simple pleasures, that it felt far away and unreachable.

The tips of her fingers burned with warmth, like they had frozen over, and then been submerged in a hot bath. The sensations were all so confusing, but the only thing that mattered was _Angelica_. Even if it was a quiet sadness to hear her being so…

“I won’t watch anything we haven’t started, but dang it, I _miss_ you.” _I miss you_. “I want you home already, and it’s already been three days! Two days? It’s late-” _It’s been so long… I want to go_ home _, already, too. I want to come home to_ you _._ “You know?” _I know..._ please _, know that I know._ “Hahaha, don’t worry about me, though I’m eating my feelings right now.”

Boupha chuckled quietly, nestling the phone into the stale sheets, and feeling her eyes sting without any moisture to lick at the corners. The quiet sadness turned to ache. Everything hurt. Just touching the sheets hurt, but it really didn’t matter all that much. It was just nice to hear her voice again. It was just nice for her whole existence to not revolve around regrets. _I miss you, Ange._

“Besides, if you were going to abandon me, you would have already done that, right…? _Ha._..!” All the warmth in her palms vanished, and a cold washed through her like a rolling tide. Boupha said nothing. She didn’t even breathe. If any did get through, it slid backwards and clogged at the back of her throat. “Welp. I’m gonna be honest. I’m really kinda upset I haven’t heard from ya’, but I know you’re living the _dream,_ so I’ll let you go for now. _Bye_! Talk to you later.” 

The cold didn’t leave her once the call dropped off. She had been content enough to float, before. She was content to idle by, and just listen, but those words—joking or not—burrowed into her head. The tepid warmth feeding into her hands was gone. _Robbed_. Boupha didn’t listen to the voicemail parroting off the standard options to save the message, but she tuned back in when Angelica’s voice dropped back in the form of another new message. She pulled her arms close to her body, and started to shiver. 

“Howdy Boupha-Burham! It’s a beautiful day here in the city, and I just got back from a run! I haven’t seen you in a few days, so I thought I would give you a little call, and at least send you some good vibes! Still missing ya! We’re gonna have to make up Constance’s birthday together sometime, I had work _,_ and you’re sorting out the IHL _harem_ you probs have by now. Talk to you soon boo bear, but I gotta scram! Work again, y’know??! Alright, _bye_!” 

It was so short compared to the first ones, that Boupha wanted to reach out to Angelica’s disembodied voice (from what was probably a week ago) and tug it back. Maybe ask for the rest of the voicemail. That couldn’t be it, could it? She wasn’t just _leaving_ because Boupha wasn’t quick enough on the draw, right? She didn’t even realize the voicemail box was running until a new voice clicked into place and started speaking onto her ear. 

“Hi, Boupha-bee. It’s Mom...” Boupha’s attention was successfully turned. Being distracted didn’t account for a lot of the stuff happening to her, but it did for this, since she’d completely missed the electronic voice mailing prompts. 

_Maybe I really am too wrapped up in my own head..._

“You asked me to call you today, but I haven’t been able to get a hold of you. I know that you definitely like your space, so I was happy to just send you a few texts, but it’s almost day two, and I’m a little nervous about not getting any updates from you? Can you call me when you get a minute? I just wanna check up on you. Also- If you… want to talk about _anything_ we can. I don’t know if you have questions, or if you want to know more about your dad, or if you just want to talk together about something completely different, but please, _please_ call me. 

"I got a call from Mr. Foster today, and I just know that this will be over before you know it. He’s heard a couple families are already making release plans. I promise that I won’t get too fretful, but maybe if you’re willing to come home for the weekend to see... Um... well, _you know ._ I can throw you a small celebration? We can R-S-V-P all of your _fun college friends_ and I’ll put a dinner together! For right now, I’m here. I’ll be standing by, so keep your chin up, Bumble Bee, and call me when you’re ready. I promise you don’t have to be alone for this. Thanks, I love you. Love you.”

All in all mom sounded alright—very casual, maybe a little concerned—but nothing out of the ordinary. There was a hint of nervous energy sewn into her voice, but not enough for her to really have issues with smoothing things out. It was very polite, put together, and assuring, but that’s what the problem was. Mom didn’t actually voice anything disturbing her until the metaphorical pot was already bubbled over and spitting. Maybe it was that cool malice creeping along the notches in her spine, or the scratches on her nerves, or the guilt chewing in her stomach, but she had some suspicions mom wasn’t being one hundred percent as adjusted as she presented herself. If she hadn’t responded, maybe mom misinterpreted that as not wanting to talk to her? 

That couldn’t be right, though. Angelica texted her she was at the house, she waited, then texted, then left the voicemail. Were there any more? 

The next message was from Mr. Foster. She only listened long enough to gauge it was about her paperwork going through, then pressed seven. Mr.Foster was a nice man, but their relationship wasn’t anything. He didn’t matter. It wasn’t important right now. If she didn’t press seven then they would stockpile in the saved messages, anyways. So it didn't matter. There were a few other people who probably left similar messages, but she wanted to sort past those to get to who she really wanted to talk to. The IRS called to confirm something, and that was ignored. Some phone scammer called her with a supposed warrant for her arrest and, already in captivity, Boupha deleted it. Someone from the friend group called, but Boupha deleted that too when all they asked about was where some cable was, and nothing else. _Geez_. They all couldn’t call to ask if things were going fine, but a TV cable to hook up a game cube was an emergency? That _hurt_. That _hurt_ a lot. Wow, did she know how to pick friends. 

_I guess that’s really my fault, though._

About six voicemails in, and Boupha was starting to think that she hit a dead end when it came to people reaching out to her, but eventually she shuffled through enough spam mail from the beginning of the week to get another call from Angelica.

The cold that had been trembling through her really hadn’t left her alone. If she was actually looking at how her body was responding it was in fact, getting worse. It took everything to keep pushing and slug through contact instead of just shrinking up and trying to get some heat back in her joints. She was already on her side, and she just couldn’t convince herself to pick herself up again. Everything was so cold, and heavy. Unlike the warmth of the skylight laying in the shade of the room was _cold_. It drew special attention to the creaking weight in her bones. The soft sheets hurt the pulsating veins in her arms, feeling rough like rucksacks instead of cotton. The strain on her circulation from these strange, tendonus chords running alongside her circulatory system was a constant pulse against the lattice of veins running in streamline threads up the top of her shoulders. It was easier to feel in her arms and legs, but she had some suspicions that the chords were _everywhere_ , weaving and pushing their way into everything. Some intrinsic sense shot off every now and then. Everything was permanently uncomfortable. Wasn’t there something about the brain turning nerves off to save itself from having to consciously interpret massive amounts of pain? It hurt, but somehow the pain was only coming in layers like volcanic ash. Light layers that got denser as time went by. The shade seemed to put a drain on her mood, too. While the sun brought thoughtless bliss, the shade overloaded her head with white noise too frayed to be considered substantial, linear thought, but too tangible for her to dismiss.

The voicemail box cycled through its usual rounds of beeps and prompts. Angelica’s contact was announced before dropping into another recording. Unlike the casual calls she’d gotten before, this Angelica kicked off practically yelling.

“ _Boupha!_ Dude. Your _mom_ is at my door! Pick up! What do I _do_? What do I _say_?!--” Angelica’s voice spat in a scream-whisper at the end of the receiver. _Ah_ , so this is where mom’s fretfulness led, then. A 3 AM freak out, and her poor mother bawling outside the apartment door (from what she could hear). 

It was actually kind of amazing that she didn’t have to imagine this anymore. Amazing in the same way watching a car accidentally explode is amazing to watch. Amazing in that incredulous, _not-at-all_ good way that people can only stare at. Her mom was making watery pleas to be let inside, but that was mostly obscured by Angelica’s panicked fumbling. The phone was getting manhandled, and making loud shuffling noises. Boupha could just picture Angelica doing that weird switchy thing with the phone. Anytime she was nervous, she’d trade it off between her hands like it was a baby that wouldn’t settle until she nursed it across her shoulders, and all she had to do was raise an eyebrow at Angel to get a glare thrown her way. Maybe an exaggerated parrot of her own face, if she was lucky. It was never not funny.

“L-look, I know you don’t really get along like- alright… you don’t go talking about your mom at all , but if you can’t pick up in the next five minutes, I’m gonna let her in. I can always call building security on her if she's a Karen, but it’s like two or three in the morning, and she’s crying in the hallway!” Angelica sounded both dumbfounded and lost, and while it was very unfortunate that two of the people she cared about most were upset, listening to this trainwreck was unbelievably, and needlessly chaotic. 

_Did… Angel call my mom a_ Karen _…? Over voicemail?_

Some fraction of warmth trickled into her jaw, and she managed to smile a little. A fragile expression that she held gingerly. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and this was the only time these two beloved people of hers had met in-person. At _all_. They maybe knew each other's names, and that was it. She felt a little ruefully _fond_ just listening to the both yell.

 _Ah_ , mom _… You showed up_ crying _? At 3 AM? That’s the worst time you could pick... why did you pick 3 AM to sleuth my address?_ _Oh god, better yet- I can’t believe Angelica_ let _her in_ _to begin with. Oh my_ god _, Angel, you have_ way too big _of a soft heart for_ _crying people. You_ really _, really do. A screaming woman shows up screaming, and you let her into the apartment at 3AM, because she was also crying? How is that smart?_

Her mom sobbed a sentence she couldn’t parse out, but whatever she said gave Angelica pause. 

“...I’ll, ah-” More sniffling, and broken sounds were heard, but either her mom had run out of energy to full on scream-cry, or she was just defeated enough to just mumble against the door hoping she’d fall on someone’s good graces. Angelica was quiet. The phone was still. “...I’ll call you back, Bobo. Or call me. I got to go.”

And then the call ended.

Wow _. I guess the benefit of Angelica and mom being the ones to call on me, is that I basically have a visual-audio library for the past couple of days._

Sleep dragged at her eyes but she wiped the haggard energy out of her eyes, and tried to blink the heavy weight out of her eyes with a smile. She could lay down for a nap, and really commit to this spot on the bed, but there wasn’t a guarantee she’d wake up at all if it took five days to get up last time. Something was _wrong_ with her, and she couldn’t just sleep things off like the flu. Sleep was dangerous. It worried her.

The irritation and pain was an uneven spider web of stinging pain that ran from the bottoms of her heels to the middle of her eyes, all blanketed under a dense haze. It was an, unfortunately, welcome sensation despite how close it brought her to tears, again. Pain meant maybe a little bit of adrenaline, and adrenaline meant a little bit more time awake. It was an unfortunate trade off, but she was already in pain, and she had things to hear and do before she went down again. There really wasn’t any telling if someone would help her if she did. Based on what had already happened, it was safe to assume she’d choke before she’d get outside help.

A portion of her was still here. If she closed her eyes a portion of them was still here for her to listen to. She could endure it for them, and when she was done here, she was going to call them both. The next call was Angelica again. She sounded much more jaunty.

“Boupha! Hey _girl_! Guess who’s got a posse en-route to your private suite! Everyone scream at the phone or I’m not feeding you!” Several discordant yells, and screams sounded off at full volume. If banshees were real, they couldn’t hold a candle to a troupe of college students who were promised free food. Boupha winced a little, but sighed once they all stopped caterwauling. 

“As you can tell, it's a full house in the Toyota, today! _Oh_! And we’re all bringing lots of love! We probably won’t be able to reach your room physically, but maybe they can give you this _big ass_ bear we got ya!” On the other end of the line, her mom’s voice dribbled in, sounding rather disapproving, but not outright scolding. “Sorry! I’m sorry. You’re right, Mrs. Muy. Oh. Uh, Your mom’s coming! We’re all on our way, so doll yourself up so we can love on you, Burham!”

Boupha could hear her mom trying to gently remind Angelica their last surname was “Muy” and not “Burham”. Angelica, being the dork she was, stammered something that sounded noncommittally apologetic, and Boupha hummed a little, smiling. She rubbed her eyes like a bruise.

 _You dug that hole_ yourself _, Ange. I’m not saving you from mom when she inevitably looks up Bo Burham and gets scandalized._

There were a lot of people talking in the car excitedly and a part of Boupha had to wonder if maybe she jumped the gun thinking that they were just standing at the wayside. They all sounded so bubbly, and excited. The kind of chitter-chattery nonsense that came with anticipation of something a long time coming. Boupha put the phone on a pillow, and curled in closer to herself. She didn’t feel _completely_ cold, anymore, but the lukewarm shiver that prickled the hair on her arms wasn’t redeemably pleasant, either. Angelica prattled on a bit about Constance’s birthday coming up, and how she’d gone about collecting everyone up that morning. Some way through the drive she also mentioned that they were getting her some ‘probably much needed comfort food’ from Mickey D’s. 

_Wonder where that ended up… Chicken fingers, and chocolate shakes sound amazing right now._ _Honestly, everything sounds game, but I think I’ll die happily if I can share some fries and shakes with Angel, again. ...Although, guess that didn’t happen the way it was supposed to. S_ _o_ weird. _I thought the heroes were ‘porting’ stuff into rooms since people weren’t allowed to go in them. Even if you can’t beam up scotty, can’t I get some chicken fingers? That’s such bullcrap..._

 _Come to think of it... Why_ didn’t _they come in? That weird bubble thing happened so SonarPunk didn’t have to physically interact with me. But, he could see me, and he was fine. He had masks, and the bubble. Why couldn’t they give_ _Angelica_ , _and everybody else a mask like that?_

Someone laughed over the phone speaker, and crinkled paper was heard over people calling out dibs for certain food. 

“AH! No! _BAD!_ BACK YOU DEMONS! Boupha, I gotta let you go, the natives are already restless. We’ll be there before you know it!! _DUDE_ !! _Stop!_ enoug-” The line cut out, and the voicemail rolled out like it was the credit sequence to some _Saturday Night Live_ sketch. Boupha wanted to shake her head, but she settled on smiling too hard. 

_I miss that..._

It could be that she was just getting inappropriately nostalgic, _again_ , but it was comforting to just listen to everyone talking. It was a comfort like balm on her soul, and she found herself leaning into the phone like a cat into someone’s palm. The distance was palpable, but it was less so just listening in. Letting the voicemail roll into the next message was easy enough to wait on when she could get lost in memories rather than intrusive thoughts, or inflamed worries. She let her eyes close a little.

The next voicemail was from Mom.

“Hi sweetheart, it's Mama." Her voice whispered, rather hushed but warm, “I know you must be confused about why I’m leaving you a message so late or else you already know. We came to come visit you, today...” Boupha opened her eyes a crack to look at the phone resting on her pillow. A trickle of genuine sadness hit her. Had being unconscious disqualified her from visits of any kind? Was this her fault, too? She seemed to have a habit of accidentally fucking over her own relationships, after all so that didn’t seem too far off base. “Well… We couldn’t get inside. Not past the lobby, anyways... I’m back at the apartment with your friend Angelica, and I think she’s gone off to bed by now. It's been a long day for everyone, I think. Poor dear... I think she’s taking this pretty hard. I’m sorry if we hit a bit of a roadblock after getting your hopes up, Sweetie. Although, I have to admit, I’m a bit relieved you have friends like you do.”

Boupha’s stomach curled. 

_I had a feeling she didn’t have a good time with the whole incident in the lobby, but I didn’t know that it made her_ that _upset... I’m kinda disappointed I wasn’t told about it, honestly... I wasn’t awake, but not even_ _the robot room voice_ _let me know someone came to see me. If I didn’t have my phone, I wouldn’t have even_ known _they were here. Is that why no one let me know? What’s going on in the other rooms, I wonder...I? f this is how they treat recognized honors, then I don’t think I want to know what’s happening to everyone else._

“She’s a really very wonderful girl, even if I think I might have spooked her a bit, Bee. I’m a little embarrassed, but I haven’t… I haven’t, been…” There was a moment that stretched a bit. Her mom just stopped talking, and she didn’t say anything to fill the silence. Was she _breathing?_ It took so long to hear her mother say anything else, that Boupha turned the phone towards her to make sure the phone hadn’t gone to sleep. 

“...I haven’t been _honest_ with you, I think… I’m very worried about you. I haven’t heard _anything_ from you in days, and I just get- _sick_ with worry _,_ the longer I don’t hear from you! Hell, especially since I can’t hear from you! Do you- do you hate me…? I can understand wanting space, but I just can’t understand how quiet you’ve been… I talked with Angelica last night, and I know you haven’t been reaching out to her, either... Are you alright? Are you okay? Are you still in the facility? I don’t know if I should be reaching out, or if you need me to just keep my hands out of this situation, but not knowing is scaring me! I just- I know- that I’m a tad _much_ , but _please_ Bumble Bee... talk to Angelica , or someone else. _Please_. I just need to know you’re doing well, and in contact with someone. Truth be told, I didn’t know if the heroes were going to let us see you, in the first place. I just-

"I had hoped that… With so many people, we might be harder to turn away. I don’t know what’s really going on, but Foster has been impossible to contact since the paperwork came through, and I just- I don’t know what else I can do…” He mother sounded drained, and _very_ exhausted suddenly. The regretful laugh at the other end of the line was almost inaudible as she muttered, “Ahaha... Besides maybe become a villain, and break in.”

Boupha frowned, shrinking in on her ruffled, sour sheets like she was a child being lectured. She thought maybe there would be more to the call, but her mother suddenly stopped talking, again. The long silences were unsettling. Boupha could gleam a lot from text and audio logs, but as much as she wanted to know what her mom was thinking, she just couldn’t get a read on anything she was probably dealing with. Her mom wasn’t very vocal about her real feelings in the first place. She always just stood in the kitchen, and smiled in her way. She was a lot more aware than she gave her credit for growing up, and she knew that now, but that image of her was the only thing she had. Her mom didn’t get mad. Her mom didn’t get upset, or sad . Her expressions were practiced, and maybe came off as insincere, sometimes, but she was _never_ upset.

Boupha could almost see her now, though. Standing in the dark apartment, muttering into the air as her thoughts ran overtime.

It wasn’t a familiar situation to think about, despite how well acquainted she was with both of those things. They just didn’t belong together. There was too much wrong with the idea of painting them together now, was wrong. Her mother was a collage of a human in the wrong background.

Things didn’t feel comfortable, anymore.

“I’m sorry I’m calling you so late, again. Don’t worry, I’m just... _being your mom. Y_ ou’re my only daughter and my only family left. I’m allowed to worry about you. _Please,_ call us back, though. There’s a lot of people here tonight who are all worried about what’s happening. Things will be better in the morning. Goodnight, Boupha Bee. I love you. _Lots_.”

It felt very hard to breathe. 

Spit stuck like tack in her throat. Swallowing didn’t push anything back down. Her throat felt too narrow. Too _sticky_. Threatening to close every time she took another shallow swallow. Something foul in her abdomen turned. The miserable feeling made her choke, burning like a haze of acidic steam when some of the rancid breath did pitch out. Her hands clutched her stomach with a frail groan, chilled by them, but burned by her breath. It was far too cold, but she couldn’t escape the malignant fire burning out of her chest. She tried to be quiet about coughing, but the haggard edge of her raw throat tore at her voice box. It was audible in all the miserable noises she squeaked out between her teeth. It was so volatile. Almost like there was peppery dust that would choke her out if she wasn’t careful about the way she breathed. The only thing she could define with certainty was the culpability she was damned to . 

There were still more messages, and she was determined to listen to.

As much as the swaying sickness that was turning her insides right-side out tried to monopolize her focus, she knew she couldn’t just say ‘fuck it', now. She missed _so much._ How could she just click off, now? That wouldn’t save her from this guilt. That wouldn’t clue her in to anything else she had missed, or give her any form of closure. There were too many gaps between what was said and what was done, and even squirming under the thumb of some stupid mushroom flu wasn’t going to stop her! 

She _wasn’t_ going to run away from this. That wouldn’t save her. That wouldn’t save her from the overwhelming guilt. It wouldn’t expunge her of dry burns running down her throat, or discount the nauseous sting on her tongue. If she didn’t muscle through this now, then she would just have to do this all again, too. Right? What _then_. If she couldn’t just do this for them now, and listen for once, then would she be able to come back to this? Could she just sit by, and listen in to this whole thing again if she let herself walk away now? They sounded like they were trying to keep cheery spirits, but there was growing uncertainty in their voices. Too many reaches that never made it farther than the length of their own hands.

Either they already thought she abandoned them, or they assumed she was ignoring them... Or, that’s what it felt like. They were holding on to crumbling hopes.

Boupha swallowed down another croaking wheeze the best she could, the sound drawing out in a long bow that took more air than it gave. She was light headed by the time it was over. Shaking, and trying to keep her teeth from chattering together, and curled in on herself in a frail attempt to garner heat. A bit of saliva slipped off the corner of her mouth, and the middle of her lip split open when she wiped the back of her hand into it. She winced, the taste was getting too much.

The next voicemail was barely audible to her. If she wasn’t completely fixated on it, then it nothing else might have gotten through to her, or pulled her out of her speculations. Even the pain was getting too distracting. A headache was forming behind her eyes, and a thin layer of sweat was staining her shirt. But she could count her small blessings. For one, she was already lying down in bed, and on her side. If she really _did_ pass out she didn’t have to worry about all of the possibilities of drowning in her own vomit, or winding up with more aches than she could have prevented. 

Mom was the next caller. From the sound of it, she really _did_ wake up to a better day.

“Hello, Mom again! This is going to be quick, since I’m making some other calls right now, but we’re going to get you out of there, Boupha Bee. They can make one case, but after last night, I think we _have_ a case. I’m _sure_ of it. So, you don’t have to worry. We’re coming to get you as soon as we can, just... give us a few days, alright? Drink _lots_ of fluids, eat whatever you can get down, and if you _can_ , send me the name of the medication they’re giving you. I don’t think they’re being completely truthful about this being hospice care. If _that’s_ the case, then we can fight this. You talk about the heroes _so much_ , that I think you gave me some _powerful_ ammunition, Bee. They have a lot of guidelines and codes of conduct. I know you _love_ them, _but please_ keep quiet about this _._ I just wanted to let you know. Mama Bear’s on the way, and I’m calling enough parents to make a stand against this. If _we_ got turned away before, I’m sure we probably have allies _somewhere_ around our area. Stay safe. Stay healthy. _Love you_.”

...And a new attitude, apparently. That was all there was. The call clicked off of the line, and the voicemail rolled through its regular dialogue. 

_...Didn’t know that she had that in her. I guess Ange rubbed off on her._ _I’m glad they get along, fine. I really didn’t paint a good picture to Angelica about her when I had the chance. I wonder what went on to get a cease and desist from the government, though… Angelica gets a little loud sometimes, but it seemed like Mom was trying to herd her into going the_ legal _routes._ _I can’t imagine them doing something too drastic—even if they_ are _upset. J_ _oking about turning into a villain is one thing, actually_ _committing crimes against the IHL_ _is_ another. _I guess they really tried to gather a crowd._

It didn’t make sense. 

Plenty of civilian protests ended in favor of the civilians' concerns. IHL was _famous_ for being as accommodating as a public service could be, so for them to turn a concerned family, or friends away was strange. Boupha huffed as the saving options rattled on in her left ear. What _isn’t_ strange, lately. 

Her mother called her every day. The next three voicemails were all updates, and small messages. Good wishes, and advice dealing with different afflictions. Some of them didn’t have any impact on all of the things wrong with her, but some tips she was offering gave her some things to consider. An oatmeal bath sounded nice. Oatmeal was good for skin, and was an old home remedy for chicken pox, so maybe that would help the nodes budgeting for real estate on top of her skin. They looked darker now than they did an hour ago, with blackish centers. Oatmeal was a harmless request, right? She could actually get something like that ported in, right? A lot of the requests she had punched into the screen near her bed had gone unheard, but oatmeal was safe though, right?

It was _food_. That was reasonable. 

Boupha traced the cream colored patterns on the walls with her eyes, and listening to her mom’s voice. Trying to focus on the words instead of the cramps condensing in her GI tract. _It would be better if I could just go home, already. I’m getting sick in here in more ways than one._ She fell into a trance looking over the room. Glazed expression wandering. Floating under density.

The room was just as pretty as the day she came, but it was so painfully different now. _Dirty_. The sheets were torn rumpled messes, and most of the pillows had been kicked around the room, save the one she was leaning on. The air had staled. Tarnished and bled into something sour. There were coppery messes that probably qualified as biohazards splattered around the floor like fleshy landmines. It stank like curdling blood and rotting grass. Dishes were everywhere, food crumbs were drying out into tacks on the carpet and hardwood, and the mirror stared at her like some cruel prank aimed at her specifically . It might be easier to hide in the bathroom and away from how she looked, but the giggles that simpered from within it’s confines kept her in bed. It kept her staring at the discoloration in her own eyes, and the scaly dryness that clung to her like patches of unshed skin near the larger growths in her arm. The skin surrounding that had jaundiced, and if she had to take a guess, it was related to the nodes. She wasn’t a doctor, but it wasn’t hard to put two and two together when you were a living case study watching your own body change. 

It wasn’t a surprise that she’d actually caught something (she _had_ been in the front row), but looking at herself wasn’t real to her. On Twitch she’d just peek between the chat, the game, and her camera feed to make sure things were running smoothly, so she saw her own face quite a bit. Over time, she had a basic idea of how she looked on a screen, or in general , and what stared back at her just didn’t match now. It just didn’t match up to this choppier, scragglier version of herself.

 _I guess you can’t get choosey with aesthetics in hospice, but I just... Can’t believe I’m-_ Boupha rolled onto her other side. _I’m not. It’s_ fine _. I’m okay. I just gotta... muscle through the hard stuff._

Angelica was the next caller. 

“ Hey. It’s been a few days... I think uh- you... probably got my texts, right? Well, ahahaha... U-um… yeah.” She murmured, underscoring the tone of her voice with fake cheer. She didn’t seem to know what to say or how to say it, but maybe that just came with making calls to someone that couldn’t answer. Uncertainty. She sounds so sad… “So, I know I haven’t been calling lately… and by lately I mean a few days ago, but... Well, I just wanted to call. Y’know?? Haha. Uh-” Boupha’s heart ached just hearing her. 

It didn’t bode well with the position she was in, but Boupha followed that eager vein of some rapacious possession to just hear her and picked the phone up, clicking off of speaker-phone mode and resting it snugly against her ear. The cords in her arm protested but she didn’t waiver. Once the idea popped in her head, any discomfort was simple to ignore and easy enough to cast off to the wayside. The phone was close enough to feel the vibrations against the shell of her ear. Every muscle in her body was suspended between the cutting cords, and the nodes littering her body, but closing her eyes and leaning in to those intonations, those verbal tics that were just so... Angelica. They made her relax. It was a simmering ice pain in all of her extremities, but there was a warm escapism in her voice. She could cuddle up and slip into an uneasy peace if she just closed her eyes, and listened. It was familiar. _Comforting. Personal._

She didn’t give a shit about the cold for now. She probably would soon, but any slight pleasure was an oasis of feeling. Things were fragile, ans the only thing she could hold onto was something as intangible as a voice. Something as terrifying as a voice.

“So... If you don’t already know, then I should probably give you an update on what’s happening. I’d do it all over text, but now I don’t know. I’m just getting some odd vibes off of people? and I just want to send anything that can be transcribed in a flash?” A beat of silence; a shake of the head Boupha could only imagine. “… _God,_ I know how that sounds. I _know_. I sound like some- delusional conspiracy video nut, but it’s the truth, Bobo! I’m being 100% serious. I want you to hear me. _Me_. Not some doctor telling you what’s going on. Or some secretary that’s just here to push buttons, and run people around for minimum wage, and an internship! You listen to me, something fishy is up... And by that I mean that there’s a whole ass beached mermaid that’s flopping around! And everyone is choosing to either ignore it or tell me they don’t exist so they can just talk down to me!” Angelica ranted, getting more and more heated.

Boupha looked at the phone pensively, raising her head enough to outright stare at it and raised an eyebrow. _What? What does she mean by that?_

“Look, I get it, and I'm on your side. I want to believe all those colorful factoids about the heroes you’ll ramble on about are unquestionable, and how cool they are to you, but something outright stinks and you can’t make any excuses for them! I’m getting sent on wild goose chases, and getting turned away _everywhere!_ I’m holding a court order in my hands right now, for fucks sake! I can’t really understand it! From what I can tell it’s about ‘ _patient confidentiality_ ’, but the thing is- I... We- Your mom, and I- were reaching out to the families, Boupha. There’s been a handful of Facebook posts and other social stuff about people going to the hospital and mentioning heroes, so...? We messaged them, just to see if this situation was happening to other people, too! And it was! Boupha, it totally was! Same thing! They turned us around in a circle long enough to tire us out, and then said we couldn’t go in because of clearance issues! It wasn’t just an inconvenience, it was their protocol! ” 

_What…?_

“We had a handful of people, and got some testimonies over a handful of days, but day three? Gone. Their Facebooks were taken down and erased! Or they were taken down, and a shitty dummy was set up! These were ten year old profiles, too, dude- Full to the brim with family pictures, and all sorts of like, human experiences, and the next day?! It's gone! And instead it’s like- five pictures! _Tops!_ All from the original accounts! No hashtags, no personality, no contacts, or only a few of the regular ones, and-” Boupha’s second eyebrow joined the first near the top of her hairline and she frowned deeply. The longer Angelica talked, the more her words ran away with her. She was a jolly and excitable girl, but she wasn’t stupid. Not even a hair. She came off as an airhead to people occasionally, but in reality she was sharp as a tack. She only needed ten minutes to clock away exactly what made someone tick. And even helped Boupha with some of the Twitch coding she needed. She was a real computer nerd, underneath that wildflower beauty, and so Boupha knew that this wasn’t just some fuckery that came with someone not entirely well versed in the ways of social media. 

_Someone… Deleted the accounts? Because, Mom and Ange started connecting with other people…? That’s not... They’re heroes. They couldn’t…_

_But they had the resources to do it, if they wanted to. Don’t they…?_

“That can’t be true, though...” Boupha muttered conspiratorially. It _was_ possible, but this had to be something else. Admitting a company had the possibility to commit a crime didn’t mean they were guilty of it. Heroes had rules to coexist with civilian society. They couldn’t just fly off the handle if they wanted to, (and there were many before them that had been cast out of IHL for making deliberate power grabs) it would be _anarchy_! Keeping order was a part of who they were! That was why the IHL existed! A part of the swear-in for new heroes during the title ceremony was to swear to whole-hearted public servitude. They were stronger, so they took up arms. Civilians worked to run a bulk of society, and the branches of government worked to make laws everyone ran by. Heroes had passes to do so many things, but they were checked by guidelines and rules. Society was their beneficiary. And that’s why what they _did_ , what they had to sacrifice, was what made them heroic .

That was how humanity survived so long. The strong protected the weak. This was the will of the goddess of heroism, Herself, and this wasn’t how the world worked! That’s why it couldn’t be true.

But if it _was_...

“All my messages with them are gone! I’ve only got like a handful of screenshots I took, and two phone numbers from a couple of the guys I first talked to. Now I’ve got this _bullshit_ cease and desist, and I’m getting hounded by the IHL?! In the same day? It’s fishy! Dude, I’m convinced this was prepped and ready! It’s deliberately vague. So vague, that basically anything I say could be used as an in to define in their case! If you pair that with everyone’s contact getting thrashed, then you already have an answer as to what’s really happening. You can’t just brush off that this whole situation is strange! That the circumstances are just too suspect-

"I met these people! Well, I mean I met them over Facebook, but I chatted with some of these people for hours, Bobo! They were _worried_! And really confused, too! It’s not just us! It’s happening to all these people! _A lot_ of frickin’ people! Over 500, _minimum_! Look, I'm getting off base, but the point is, I know something is happening, and you have to know that, too. I know you’re probably around tons of doctors and IHL guys, and it’s hard to keep stuff under wraps, but if you have to keep any contact with anyone you have to make it discreet. I _mean_ it. Limit texting. Anything that’s not ‘good morning’, ‘good evening’, ‘how are you’, or ‘did you see the new Bo Burham special, Angel?’ is _not_ allowed! Do _not_ text anything personal. Do _not_ text anything medical. Call me.” 

Boupha felt a little sick listening to her. It was one thing to have a few paranoid delusions during her stay with enough of a sense of doubt to throw some plausible deniability into the mix just by herself, the situation was an enigmatic possibility that she was an unreliable narrator in her own story. It was another thing for a third party to announce the same conjecture and then back it up with outside evidence. Anecdotal evidence, but evidence enough that something might be up with this.

Maybe it was terrible for thinking about it, but Boupha had been half hoping that she was wrong. That she was just under some delusion. That she was actually being well taken care of, and it was just outside of her peripheral understanding. It was BlackHat’s disease, so maybe she wanted to put some faith in the bad guys being the only ones to play their role as the antagonist.

Maybe she just wanted the good guys to play their roles well, too. It shouldn’t just be Angelica.

“Hell , call me anyways! I don’t know what the fuck is happening right now, and I can’t even tell what’s going on with you, either! I can’t just _not_ hear from you, dude. We’re all worried! I’m doing my part, you got to meet me halfway. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen you! Even longer since I’ve heard from you, and- a-and you know what-?! _That's_ bullshit, too! It’s _bullshit_ , Boupha.” She shrank. "Your mom is worried enough to throw up from not eating enough. Everyone on group chat is worried enough to want to just abandon ship to escape this craziness! And I’m worried enough to want to set something on fire if it means getting you home. No one has been able to confirm that they’ve heard from you since your last fucking Twitch stream! _No one_! Do you know what that’s like?! Where are you?! Can you hear me?! Are you getting any of this?! Am I going crazy?! Am I even fucking talking to anyone?! Are you already d-”

A sudden sob broke the long winded tirade and skipped across the top of her voice until it dried into a pained gasp. 

That seemed to stun them both. There was a beat of silence. An audible shiver and then a turn. The sound carried into the most pathetic whine Boupha had ever heard, rising in pitch until it seemed to disappear. It was so high it was almost silent. There was a hard choke before the breathing got choppier and another high wail hit the end of the receiver. Internally, Boupha crumpled under it. Despair was a fire that had burned against her face and behind her own eyes.

In another time, in a different space, Angelica had started crying, and for several minutes, couldn’t stop.

All Boupha could do now—in another time, in another place—was just listen. Silent. Unable to help her. Too stunned to really know what to do, despite the knee jerk reaction she had to hold something. Comfort someone. Maybe even hide.

It was a muffled sound. Fringe on the edge of static. Sound that tore in places as delicately as lace. The torment that bled over the recording soaked the silence. Somehow she knew that Angelica had tried to cover her mouth and not cry right into the phone. It was so withheld, that the strain was probably just making it painful. Boupha couldn’t swallow the despondency tugging at her own throat. The tears were already gone by now. Imprints of a feeling that the real Angelica was no longer a part of… But the fact that it had existed left a mark on her.

The record was the shadow of the reality. The fact that she was responsible for it, was even more carving. It impressed itself in her soul, and scored her less rational mind with tallies. One more mark to prove one less. Boupha wanted to turn the phone off. Destroy it, even.

A record of Angelica just... crying like _that._ Shouldn’t exist. 

She wasn’t breathing properly. Her breathing kicked up and retrograded. The noises were choked and rapid. It was the kind of crying that someone only made when they had no way out of something terrible. Mourning that followed inevitability like the reaper himself. A preemptive dirge. She obviously hadn’t planned on getting so emotional. This was probably just supposed to be an update, but given everything that she was trying to explain, this seemed far more serious than she initially let on. 

Angelica probably hadn’t realized how serious it was, herself, until she’d finally let it all vent out to someone. The situation was as delicate as it was dire. Considering what might... end up happening... That wasn’t a crazy thing to be so scared about. 

The wet sniffling and frail whines were only partially audible, but their thready presence was still there in the gloom of the call’s empty recording cell. Boupha stared, transfixed on nothing outside of Angelica’s voice with the phone still fitted to her ear. She couldn’t breathe. All she could do was listen. Seized by the sorrow of it, and choking up along with her. When she finally could speak, Angelica sounded like she was speaking from thousands of miles away. 

“I-I’m so… s-sick of this.”

 _Ange_...

 _“H-ho-how_ could y-you just- lea _-._.leave me to _deal_ w-with all of this by _myself-”_

 _Please, stop… You_ know _I wouldn't..... You_ know _I_ wouldn't _just-_

Boupha hissed, dragging nails down her ribs when another sharp cramp sliced into the meat between her ribs. The muscle fluttered awkwardly before it clenched inwards and her ribcage scrunched like a living wire trap. Invisible claws squeezed her with all the intention of caving it in, and the internal force of it winded her like she was losing the fight to someone else. Unseen forces pulled her insides like they wanted her out. Even between sputtering heaves, she only thought about her poor friend. Maybe, because thinking about anything else was too much for was too much for her mind to hold on to. Maybe, because it felt like the guilt was what was eating her from the inside.

She wanted to say something to Angelica. Say something that would bring her real comfort and ease her mind, but she _couldn’t_. Not anymore. It had already happened. Boupha was just being made to witness it now, too little, and _far_ too late. It shouldn’t have been a shock, but it was. Dumbfounded, horrified, disoriented, and a loss for what to do, she just froze. 

She knew she couldn’t just sit there as her body wrestled with its own problems, but she couldn’t bring herself to do anything besides lean in to the receiver and stare blankly forward, either. She had to say _something_ , but she couldn’t breathe . Angelica couldn’t hear her. The world was getting too narrow. Boupha clutched at her own throat, and a swatch of panic flipped into place somewhere in the back of her mind. 

_...Angelica!_

“ _Where are you_?! Why won’t yo-you answer me?”

Boupha curled inwards. Against the grain of something telling her she should sit up, and wished to evaporate. She just wanted to stay there, and curl up and die, but some instinctual need to be upright ripped through her like a live wire. She sat up when the fear of another choking fit overruled her need to hide away from all of these horrible things closing in on her. 

It hit her like a smack to the back of the head. It started as a painful gargle, then morphed into choking. Thin rings of saliva and thick globs of mucus shook out of her until it oozed from the corners her mouth. Even with the amount of drainage coming out of her, her lungs worked past their limits to scavenge what air they could grab. Wet, rough coughs ripped out of her, and rocketed out of the back of her throat in bloody sprays that clung to her teeth. When she managed to cough hard enough for her eyes to bulge, the rest of her fracturing thought dropped out in thick pieces. Instead of words and consonants, strangled wails eked out of her. Rattles that only squeezed more air out of her lungs than they could ever hope to take back. 

She had to tell Angelica it wasn’t _true_. She had to tell her it just wasn’t true. It wasn’t true and it wasn’t her fault. But Angelica couldn’t even hear her right now. She was far, far removed from all the horrors of this lonely room.

She couldn’t decide if that was a good thing. 

Boupha found it in herself to cry again, and fat drops slid down the sides of her cheeks between harsh gags, and hacks. She was suffocating to death. Unable to breath and shaking apart, but keeping the death grip she had on the phone uncompromisingly tight. It was an irrational clutch. As if letting it go would mean letting go of something far more precious. A drowning man clutching at his last straw. 

Something was _wrong_. Something was wrong, and she could feel it build like the drag of a tidal wave. Dread grew along side it like a riptide. The daunting wind up before the punch. All she could do was just sit there and stare. Just try to _breathe_. 

Her stomach dropped on a hiccup, and the motion seemed to trigger _something_ to set a cascade of other motions into swing. Sweat beaded down her brow. Sweltering nausea she had just barely kept a cap on dragged out of her in long throws. The cords wound in the venules of her abdomen contracted all at once like some heinous parasite had taken hold of her, and tried to move as one unit. Against her own volition the musculature of her abdomen spasmed into a hard heave, and held her there in airless suspension. She couldn’t even close her mouth. 

“I- Hate this! I hate not knowing! I hate all of these secrets, and all of these people who don’t give a damn, an-a-and you know what? I kinda hate you for just leaving us so in the dark we don’t know what _fucking_ direction to move! Your heroes _lied_ to you, Boupha! Can’t you understand that?! Can’t you trust _me_ , more than some showboats on a postcard?! Why can’t you just reach out to me as much as I try to! Why am I the only one trying?! I’m just trying to-” 

Angelica screamed into the phone. Sounding distraught, and wounded, and absolutely ruined by it all. Her stomach curdled. She could her it in her voice. The tears, and the frustration, the despair. Angelica was at a boiling point, spitting, and shrieking. But just as quickly, the tone shifted. She seemed to realize, with some terrible, but abrupt clarity, that she’d said something she couldn’t take back now. The disquieted horror in her voice was miasma that soaked into stifled air. 

“...T-to... I-I …Oh my god... I- I’m _sorry_ I’m just so- I’m- by all of this shit, I... I-I hav-have to go. I just- I have to... hang u-up. I d-don’t-” The damages were already done. Boupha convulsed. 

Another grimy spill of copper dribbled off of her tongue, before the vice woven in her ribs tightened and contracted. Rapid, rippling contagions forced her muscles to move in a backwards peristalsis. Internally rerouting something larger. Tears bloomed too quickly to see anything past her finger tips, and she lost all sense of direction pretty quickly. The tight, lock jawing muscles unwound in a snapping motion with sickening popping noises. All throwing themselves into overdrive, and urging movement upwards. The full force of it hurled her whole body forwards, and broke her gazeless, wide-eyed trance. A long, hard heave forced itself up from her chest like a party popper exploding.

Once.

Twice.

Then, it hit her.

Barely able to see past tears bubbled at the brims of her eyes, and beads of sweat dripping down the sides of her face, Boupha gripped the sheets until they almost ripped. And screamed out what air she had left. Somewhere, in all the oxygen starved garble, she recognized this as another purge. But at the same time... it wasn’t. It _couldn’t_ be. While the other purges had been unpleasant, and just as disgusting, they never filled her with this much dread. The build never alarmed her. This _did_. Intrinsically, she knew that this wasn’t the peak, just the ridge.

Bile, and more of that blood-spattered drool keked up the back of her throat. On its heels, a wave of solid masses followed, cutting thins lines into the walls of her throat as they fell out in clumps and joined the rest of the scourge puddling in her hands. Her eyes rolled and her back bowed under the force of it, and she rode out the fit until it finally gave. She drunk a mouthful of air greedily, sight spinning until she finally saw what was in her hands.

Full handfuls of almond-shaped leaves came first. 

They were ordinary, green leaves that even a child could pencil out. Slightly waxy, with a light green vein that divided them in half neatly. Aside from the fact they were strewn together in webby cascades of poorly mended flesh, or dripping a foul brew of poorly digested blood, they were entirely average. The branches weren’t long, they were woody, but they were like sprigs of Spanish moss, and clumped into odd geometric piles that dragged bloody gouges up her throat on the way out. About four got out before Boupha could gather enough air to voice her agony. It was enough to finally get the phone to drop out of her hand, and tumble to the floor hard enough for the screen to fracture. The phone’s audio was still running, but for once, Angelica’s panicked voice came second to the violent, heaving wheeze that seized her chest cavity, and ended in a foaming gurgle. 

It was an incomprehensible situation. As scrambled as her mind was, it just wasn’t something that she could mentally digest. There was a small pile of branches and perfect leaves that saturated the top of mattress with blood and a sticky pink slather of other substances. The densest patch was nearly black, but it was hard to tell if that was just a result of stomach acid stewing in hemoglobin so long, or if the color might be indicative of something else happening. Boupha wasn’t a doctor, though. She wasn’t even mostly herself, for the moment. Just some screaming, bloodied thing squalling for mercy without the motor functions to dictate action.

Another round of contracting heaves. Once. Twice.

Her eyes rolled into the back of their sockets again, and red line her vision. A bone in her jaw popped. Her spine bending like tetany had seized her, in a mangled arch. A wail of gurgling acrimony whimpered out of her, then more leaves spilled out of her throat. Regurgitation dripped into new wounds with a chemical singe. Everything smelled rancid, like something that was already in final stage of decay. A parody of something stuck between dirty, loose change, and the complete rot of biochemical putrefaction. If her own body wasn’t already forcing her to puke her guts out, then the smell probably would have been enough to push her over the edge. 

Angelica sounded so _painfully_ far away. And as much as her head called out for mercy, her heart called out for acknowledgments. In all of her attempts to get them, up until this moment, she never thought she could feel so much but, but want for something else so badly. She’d tried so hard to make her understand.

“I have t-to hang up.” 

This was the fruition of that

The call ended, mostly unheard, but fully missed once it vanished. Boupha was vaguely aware of Angelica's voice disappearing, but less in the sense that tangible words were trickling into her rattled mind, and more as if someone had completely cut the white noise of comfortable life off for her. It lit some instinctual panic behind the wall of fears clotting her brain, and she clutched for the phone uselessly. There were too many tears in her eyes, and not enough breath in her lungs. Her vision blurred, and turned with a phasing level of vertigo. The bed, the leaves, and the brackish mess that seeped into the mattress spun into dilated shapes, and warped colors. Boupha took a wet, sucking breath inwards, and tried to right herself without success. Every time she got an arm under herself the world spun, and she was sent crashing back into the rotted mess. Her hands floundered for the phone. Something clattered to the floor. The voicemail rolled. 

Conscious thought came back to her like a punch. Scattering through her brain with disequilibrium, and inconsolable hysterics. Adrenaline kicked everything into triple time, even regrets.

 _Angelica-_ Ange _... Save me. Don't leave me. I didn't mean to- I didn't_ mean _to abandon you! I D-didn't mean to! I didn't mean to... It's not_ my _fault- Angel, please! I need you... to- I need you to-t- to be something! I need you to be anything._ Fix _me, Angel! Don's leave me, don't hate me!_ God _, please. Please! I'm sorry, I_ didn't _mea-_ Boupha coughed, and a spotty sob splattering red across the sheets. Something tickled the bottom of her throat like she had swallowed warmed cotton and Boupha gagged. Soft tufts of something caressed up her pharynx like fingertips tracing a wall, and sent unnatural shudders down her spine. It was so _light_ compared to the leaves. Almost feathery. It didn’t hurt, but somehow something in her knew it meant something _worse_ was happening. Logically, it shouldn’t have sent her mind back into a blind panic, but some integral, deep-rooted something inside her just knew better. 

Human beings were said to have manifested a form of connected consciousness before written history or records. When survival was the only thing mattered, anthropologists speculate that even fear manifested as a result of natural selection. It was the reason why so many people had a knee-jerk avoidance of snakes, or spiders, or vermin. It was why long, sharp features, and black eyes registered an unsettling trill of warning, and why rotting flesh conjured images of evil to a crowd. 

Something just _knew_ better. So, she knew she had to stop it. It had to be stopped, but it _couldn’t_.

Boupha clawed at her throat, adrenaline spiking in the rabbiting pulses jumping at her throat. Yelping and crying, her eyes glazed over for a second time. Fingernails drawing red and white scratch lines down her skin, but it was lost to the absolute terror that soft fluff drew from her the closer it got to the top of her throat. She still couldn’t breathe well, and the watery vomit that still trickled down her jaw only sucked back when the hard heaves started again. 

One round. Two. A growing wave of apprehension dragged at her like a vacuum, and there was a split second she remained there, once again encased in alarm. On the third, the muscle rippled inwards, before ejecting harshly. It was even stranger than the leaves. 

Camellias dropped into her lap. About three of them.

Soft pink, tender flowers that unfolded like a living mandala. Geometric spins of petals, that remained untouched by grime or the sickness that splayed across a laurel carpet of ruined leaves. They were a terrible, pristine contrast to the decay. They _shouldn’t_ exist. She felt it in the hollow of her bones. 

She back-handed them off of her lap like she’d been electrocuted by something. Screaming and slapping the fabric of her ruined clothes, cursing half formed words. Shrill barks of fear bubbled between groaning trills of anguish. The buds bounced harmlessly off the hardwood and rolled, a few petals dislodging on impact. They came to a rest, and stared back at her. Boupha wanted to empty her lungs screaming, but the pain tanking up her throat only allowed it to come in forced, uneven bouts. Saliva dried on the edge of her jaw and mixed with the corrosive muck from the leaves. It left the skin it touched feeling raw. 

_Everything_ felt raw. From her destroyed mouth to the twitching muscular cords in her abdomen. Every nerve was burning so cold that it singed her insides and scorched her shivering arms. Every nerve in her head was screaming off something unintelligible. The back of her throat tasted like fresh blood, and carrion.

She tried to back-peddle over the festering nest of leaves, but retreating deeper into the shade of her room just made the cold more noticeable. It rang through her like wind, and left her feeling hollowed out. Without the real distraction of immediate pain, the cold came back into her full force. Her vision kaleidoscoped again, before whiting out for a second. The swirling patterns on the walls were moving. Boupha whimpered as she watched them spin, barely able to keep herself upright as her eyes darted. Were they moving? They hadn’t moved before. They were painted, right? Or carved? Were they rolling? Were they _reaching_? Her vision spotted again. White spinning vertigo. Her arm wobbled, and she had to catch herself when her head almost crashed into the bed frame. She didn’t quite make it. 

A hand with laquear nails centered itself on the small of her back to support her. Perfectly crimped hair tickling the nape of her neck. A voice tutted at her, sighing a little bit wistfully against the shell of her ear.

“ _You look tired, Boo-Boo…”_

Boupha trembled, cold blood gumming up her clothes, and frozen terror gumming up her head. The hair on her arms prickled up on end, and she gaped at the lock of corn yellow hair in her peripheral. Despite seeing nothing in the mirror, it dangled idly near the top of her head. No amount of rechecking the mirror with feverish eyes made her feel any safer. Boupha could hear her own heartbeat rabbiting in her ears, but she didn’t move her head, or dare to move at all until the hand centered itself in the small of her back. In a flash she turned her wild eyes on the voice with an outraged bark of fear, moving away as quickly as she could and ready to hit something. The pressure of the hand vanished instantaneously. 

She was alone.

 _No one was there_. No one even appeared in the mirror besides herself. She only met her own eyes in the mirror with a watery, dilated terror. She felt eyes appraising her still, and her skin crawled, feeling utterly exposed. Boupha looked about helplessly—understanding less and less—small whimpers of unease turning into paranoid weeping. 

She didn’t want to look at anything anymore. She just wanted to escape, and be gone from this awful room. She wanted safety, and sanity, and familiarity . She wanted to stop being touched by phantom hands, and to fall into a real pair for just a minute to find some shelter from the world. Someone who gave a damn about whether she woke up. Something _solid_ , and _real_. She only stopped crying when her head throbbed, and the laughter bouncing off the linoleum tile in the bathroom got too loud for her to take. 

She couldn’t stay here any longer. It was all too much. 

Boupha staggered when she got up, crying anew when the walls of the room moved under her hands like the coils of a giant snake were in the walls. White fire hooked into the joints of her body and blistered, but she shouldered her way to the door nevertheless. After only about ten feet, pinkish drool slid down her chin. Panting, open-mouthed with exhaustion, weak fingers gripped panels in the wall. The exertion was torture on her already enfeebled body, and her legs shook even with the support of the wall, but she had to force herself to move. She didn’t have any other choice if she wanted to get out with her senses and self intact.

She had to move. She had to get out. _Now_. 

Boupha struggled to the front door she had first come in through. About halfway over, the nodes in her arm broke from their rough treatment, and in her tangled struggle to the door, smeared blackish fluid across the wall. What hadn’t dried down her front also joined the macabre mosaic she made of the wall. Her breathing came in, thinned and pallid, and left in gruff pants. There wasn’t enough coming in, or at least there was way too much going out for it to make much of a difference. She stumbled, head throbbing, neck pinching painfully at the base of her skull. Blood dripped off her drying teeth. She ran out of stamina quickly, but only allowed herself to drop to her knees when she reached her goal. 

She _had_ to get out.

Her fists were too weak to make much noise on the metal door, but she hoarsely tried to yell for someone to come get her anyways. They had to know she was here. They had to be doing _something_. Someone _had_ to be there. They couldn’t just _keep_ her here. She turned to discordant wailing just as quickly.

"Someone help! Le-let me out! _Help me_!" Shrieking loud enough for the noise to echo off the walls and hit her like stones, she shakes at the strain screaming alone takes on her. "Ple... Please. _Please_! Let me out! I have to go _home_! Please! _Please_..." She couldn’t hear anything past her own hiccuping breaths, and the fridge running. Just white noise in an empty room. No one moved outside the door. Tears dropped into her lap silently as her over heated forehead pressed against the cold door in defeat. "She- she... She thinks I aban- _abandoned_ her! Pleas-please- I can't lose _this_ too!"

The door didn’t move. It didn’t bubble away to reveal another hero. There wasn’t even a footstep to clue her in to anyone listening. It was just her and a tittering voice that echoed off the tile in the darkened bathroom. The skylight was the only portal to the outside. Boupha slapped the middle of the door open palmed and yelled. It made a satisfyingly loud noise, but it was lost on any passerbys, if there _were_ any. The spike of staticky pain ricketing through her arm was enough to shrivel any resolve she might have had to do it again, but she almost wished she could. 

It didn’t matter if she ruined it. None of it mattered if she couldn’t get out. It made her feel uselessly dejected, and that somehow burned her to the core with fury. She _hated_ feeling useless, pathetic. She _hated_ feeling remorseful and regretful. She _hated_ this room for causing it.

Slamming her hand against the door until she couldn't feel it anymore, wrath slowly built up to a low burn in her core. It warped her pleas into wretched shrieks inbetween slams. Whether it was a battle cry, or just emotional agony was hard to tell. Her windpipe got dry quickly from a number of physical stressors that made the noise click and burble harshly at the back of her throat. She didn’t even stop the frothing slather from caking down the corners of her jaw. Viscous foam bubbled on the back of her tongue. All she wanted to do was get out, and if she had to force her way out, she would try. Even if it _was_ fruitless. 

Somewhere between her bellows and howls she swallowed a fleck of something in the wrong direction. A hand came up to cup her mouth, only to fall away and grab her throat when the irritation caught and stuck in place like a hook. Without much prompt, another purge hit. It only gave enough time for her to gape down at the mess before another shudder rolled through her and her body forced more up. More gushes of clear fluid flooded up her throat. Quick enough to make her gag, and retch around whatever screams she’d been trying to bark out. There weren’t as many leaves this time, but she wasn’t entirely spared from looking at the new addition to her list of symptoms. 

Another handful of petals drooled off of her tongue in coagulated clumps. She coughed out two full ones, mostly intact, but the rest of the broken mess came out in a smash of fluff, and pink petals. Was it from her moving too erratically or too soon? It came out a mess that looked more akin to her first purges, just smaller. It was a Camilla, for sure, but it was in pieces. Regardless of how, or why, once they were out, everything came to a stop and she nearly fainted from relief. Muscles, too weak to force anything else out, twitched and slackened, too. Boupha felt the sting of tears, but couldn’t tell if there were any left. She just wanted to go _home_. A hand clawed pitifully at the door.

"...Let me... le-let me out... Ple-plea-please." The words, and whimpers, gurgled wetly in Boupha’s mouth like a drain. She didn’t even _sound_ human anymore. Teary eyes stared vacantly up at the door, pleadingly, but clutched at the door’s edge like the robes of a priest. No one was listening.

"Please! I betrayed him al-already! She'll hate me!" A hiccup interrupts her. Another giant swell of pain slithers up her torso. "She hates me! Please! I have to lea-leave! I can't stay here!" Pounding did nothing. Pushing barely made noise. Clawing didn’t even put a mark on the door. Her hands weren’t nearly as strong or dexterous as they could be, but the door didn't feel like a real door. And that made things all the worse. It was like a fake panel was installed to give the impression there was an entryway. It was too smooth- too closely sutured into the frame. The shape was too _perfect_ , and had no sign of any wear or tear to it. There was no crack of light or airflow between the hinge. There was no indication that it was a _real_ door. It had to be a real door, though. The only proof she had was memories of walking _through_ the threshold making small talk— _but that was REAL_ , she lived that!—and if she didn't, how _else_ did she get _in_ here? 

Leaning on the paneling for support, Boupha dug her fingernails into the seams of the frame and jimmied it the best she could. The idea was to try and possibly find some loose sections to whittle at. Maybe yell through? However, the strange material seemed to be vacuum sealed to the frame. It didn’t even wobble, or press in under her weight even slightly. Frustration dropped into her empty stomach, and she eyes stung at the seams when she realized she really and _truly_ was stuck until someone decided to come get her. 

" _Let. Me. Out_! You can't jut _keep_ me here! You _can't_! Please help me! _Annabelle_?! _Goldenheart_?! Pl-p-please! I _helped_ you- Please?! _Help me_!" Rage gurgled at the edges of her voice before dissolving into something more frantically desperate. "Just let me see her! Angel hates me! Ple-please just let me-e-me see her! I _can't_ do this again!" No one came, and no one went, and no one heard any of her pleas or bids. And there she remained, just sitting there, waiting in silence. For minutes then maybe something closer to an hour, before her body started making grabs for her attention. 

The broken nodes in her arm pulsated and started to swell. It _hurt_. It hurt badly, but the black fluid dripping down her arm was a minor sensation lost to a sea of vastly more painful ones. It fell to the wayside after slamming the door so reiteratively. The nerves in her hands sparked out and numbed enough for the nodes she’d been abusing to grab her notice. Some of the brackish scum dribbling out had flicked onto the door, but most of it was soaking into a good portion of the shirt that wasn’t already ruined with the rotted bile from the leaves. It was oily. Almost pus-ish slime, but really dark, like tar. There was a lot more coming out than she thought. And it bled into everything dry it touched, even skin. 

Still leaning mostly against the wall on her knees, Boupha raised a hand to the popped punctures and pressed a hand against it. Was this _blood_? She wasn’t bleeding out right now, right? What veins were dangerous to hit, besides the jugular? Squeezing the skin around the popped boils, she looks for something that could be made into a quick tourniquet. Frowning down at it, directionless anger and directionless disgust making her lip curl. However, with a firmer grip she realized that something was poking her. Right in the middle of her palm. 

Retracting her hand, it was hard to tell initially what is was. With all the goop clinging between the skin and her palm. But once the pressure was released it squirmed and unfurled. There was some kind of protrusion growing out of the deflated pocket of skin in her arm. And it was _moving_. She gaped at it with a sick fascination she couldn’t follow with her mind. Thick stalks of new greenery thrummed under her skin like an extension of her arteries. It stretched upwards through the muck, and broken flesh, until roughly five almond shaped leaves slowly folded open like fine, green pieces of origami. She recognized the movement, but couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing.

Angelica had a thing about watching “ _earth_ ” on Netflix. Mostly, during breakfast like they were Saturday morning cartoons. She was a big outdoor girl (even inside), and it was actually really nice waking up to a bowl of frosted flakes with some waterfall in Africa on TV. Especially, with Ange just eating up the drama between birds and lizards duking it out over bugs.

For Boupha, some of her favorite sequences were the time-stills of plant life that took up to a year to film. It was actually really amazing to watch a forest full of living greenery move. The sun rose and fell in flashes too quick to track, and the coils of vines, or trees, or flowers moved in a jerky, real-time pace as they stretched to the sun, of folded open in giant blooms. It was just bizarre, and beautiful to know that plants really were alive. As still as they could stay, they were constantly moving, growing, and adapting. It was never very long (always just a sliver of footage slotted between the different biomes of animal drama) but it was nevertheless mesmerizing. 

It was art because it wasn’t something you could just go out, and see normally with your own eyes, even realistically, without the view of a camera, and there was some whimsical delight she got out of watching them.

The comfortable charm she had for it didn’t exist here in this hellhole. 

Watching some wretched, squirming frond push out of her shoulder, and grapple towards the direction of the skylight, wasn’t beautiful at all. It was a nightmare that was quickly just becoming a reality she didn’t want to face.

A sharp, panicked noise slipped from her deteriorating throat. The longer she stared at it in gut wrenching awe, the more she wound herself up into another frenzy. Her vision cross-haired. Narrowing and funneling out as she alternated between either hyperventilating or not breathing at all. Stuck between panic and dissociation, Boupha just ended up just staring. It put her in a daze that only fixated around the five, neat leaves, and the black oil dribbling down the inside of her arm. The leaves were waxy enough for the rich green to unveil itself once the goop dripped off of it. The delirium of discomposure was a rough enough of a ride to fall off without watching your body turn against itself. 

This just wasn’t something that _happened_ to people. People died horrific deaths everyday, but _nothing_ like this. Never like this. As much as Boupha studied statistics, no amount of deep diving into the darker ends of professional hero-ing could have prepared her for that. If she was grasping at straws before, then she was grasping at a fraying thread, now.

The branchlet stopped moving the moment the leaves unfolded, and the mucky hand still shaking at her side twitched. Breath came shallowly, pain came frequently, and she just wanted it all to _stop_. She tried, and failed to take a few deep breaths. But as much as she wanted to, Boupha couldn’t just ignore the parasite making a graft of her. There were a lot of things that rubbed her the wrong way, but that was a line she didn’t realize was there until it was crossed.

There were a lot of red flags, and warnings, but somewhere in the back of her head she couldn’t completely rule out the faith she had in her heroes. How many times had they come in at the last minute to save the day? How many times were the civilians only clued into their counter strikes until after they had been saved? They were _heroes_. It was what they did. Civilians were lucky to have them, so why should she make a snap judgement? 

That wasn’t a part of the plan though, was it? 

They were so transparent about the situation. The lawyer, the phone calls, the info dig, the _fucking cease and desist order._ It was all because they expected her to die. Her release was only guaranteed under a promise that started with _‘if’_. That was all there was too it. _If_ she survived, _then_ she could walk out of here. 

She was left in here to die. There wasn’t a justification. There was no one in here fighting for her best interest, and that wake up call seemed to come far, _far_ too late. 

The need to escape hit the core of her like a bullet, and the shock of betrayal took the rest of the air in her lungs. She wanted to fly. To escape. To get _out_ of this place, up through the only escape there seemed to be. But Boupha Muy was, simply put, a regular human being. A very, _very_ sick human being, who could barely stand. The room spun and tilted, but her eyes lingered on the perfect dividend in the leaves. Her shoulder kept her propped lopsidedly against the door, but most of the adrenaline she’d been running on was wearing off. 

_She couldn’t get out._

The end was inside this door, and she’d danced through the atrium. She couldn’t get out. No one was coming. No one was going to help her. She looked down at the stolon leaning towards the light. Her life had been taken from her. Taken, and replaced with this constant cycle of fear, confusion, and anger for her own well being when she should have been able to trust the people she put her faith in.

Boupha fought the only way she _could_.

She grabbed the base of the stems. Ballistic anger, and gaping fear swallowed the rest of her rationality, and with venomous yell, yanked the whole thing _out_ of her arm. The pain was instantaneous. White, hot, and grueling. She might as well have dug her fingers into the meat of her shoulder, and ripped out a string of arteries weaved down her arm. All she wanted was for it to be _out_. To escape it, somehow. But the motive, and the result just didn’t have a place at odds with reality. 

Was she screaming? Was that _her_ screaming? She couldn’t process what she was doing, everything was spotting out into white noise and fuzz. It didn’t sound like her own voice, really. It sounded like an animal was getting torn apart. Was that her? Everything hurt so badly, that things were getting more numb the more she struggled. Was it possible to feel _so much_ that you couldn’t feel anything, anymore? Was this what dying was like? The cold was so dense that when she slumped the rest of the way to the floor, only her eyes rolled. White patches glossed across her vision, until the edges almost seemed to change _._ Rapidly shifting colors spiraling. The skylight was completely unseeable. 

All she was left to dowas stare as the rest of her perception faded out. Goosebumps prickled up her arms when she heard the bathroom door open, but unable to keep a hold on her strength any longer, exhaustion finally took her under, and she passed out with a small, distressed sound. She could almost hear feet on the hardwood before she lost all sense of where she was.

* * *

“Boupha! Bo-boo, my sweet _honey_ , time to rise and shine!” Awareness trickled in, and Boupha groaned, her nose wrinkling indignantly. There was a huff from someone else in the room, before feet padded around to her shelf. They returned almost instantaneously a second later, looming over her with intent. Angelica brought the mouth of a sock monkey up to Boupha’s face, and snickered. 

“ _Boo-Boo_ wake up?”A tress of crimped, blonde hair dangled onto her forehead, and Boupha growled as a pair of cotton-stuffed monkey lips mashed into the top edge of her frown. Angelica, obviously wasn’t going to leave until she got her way, but now Boupha was geared up for grumpy resilience and didn’t want to open her eyes. 

“Come _on!_ Wake up, you goober, prince charming is sucking face and you’re still asleep at like- eight fifteen! I made breakfast, and you’re going to miss the parade you got all hyped up for like a dumb ass, and I’m going to have to listen! I warned you about staying up that late. And I know you were awake at like three in the morning, you weirdo! Get. the. _fuck_ -” The sheets ripped off of her bed, and her poor cold arms and legs by extension “Up! I made some fancy ass bacon, and hell if it’s going to sit in a pan, you lazy butt!”

_Parade? What parade…?_

Angelica scoffed. “' _What parade_?’... It's the fourth, _Dummy_! Let’s grab some folding chairs, and ship out once you get some breakfast in you! You’ll be lucky if we can see any heroes with how late you slept in,” Angelica scoffed. Boupha had to fight the smile warping her frown. 

“Mhm... Ah, you made me food? That almost makes up for making me kiss Socky.”

“How did you know I chose Socky?”

“You’re not creative, pretty predictable after a week, and I only have one stuffed animal with lips that full.” A pillow got thrown at her head, and without opening her eyes, Boupha deflected it. She smiled to herself, half smug.

“By the way, Honey, what’s for dinner?”

“Get. _Up_. Boupha.”

“No. I’m busy sleep-talking to you. That would be rude. I can’t just hang up, I have minutes I gotta pay off.”

“You’re gonna cry if you don’t see a hero today in the flight brigade, and I’m just going to laugh at you.”

“...You’re so _rude_ to me…” Angelica scoffed, probably rolling her eyes on the way out, and padding off to the kitchen to go pack something.

Boupha peeked an eye open to make sure she was gone, and sat up, groaning as a few joints popped when she stretched out. Running a hand through her hair, Boupha could already tell she needed a brush, or a hair tie. Things were a little on the dandelion side of frizzy, and all she wanted to do was chase that bacon she could smell and maybe wash her face. Some British voice was booming out of the TV speakers, and Boupha rolled her own eyes at it. 

_Happy Fourth, jackass. Love hearing your traitor BBC on the living room TV, but glad for the bacon. Maybe, I’ll find it in my heart to forgive you._ Maybe _._

Boupha smiled, got up, and started pulling some summer clothes off of the hangers. Breakfast had to be eaten quicker than normal, and Angelica made a point of using the last of the syrup before sticking her tongue out at her. Boupha mourned her loss by eating the last of the butter. It was just the way of the world. 

Then they both got ready and took turns using the bathroom. Angelica ran into some conundrum with her hair and started crying her eyes out. It turned into a pretty salvageable new style, and while Angelica had to redo her makeup, Boupha loaded up the coolers, chairs, and other things into the truck. The camping grounds were a little over forty-five minutes past the middle of the city, and it just made more sense to just go from the parade street to the lake grounds. If they were lucky, maybe they could shack up with a cheap fireworks stand, and sneak a few sparklers in. 

_Not the most heroic thing to do. But really, it’s the fourth of July. Who’s gonna care if we’re near the lake?_

Boupha loaded in the last sleeping bag mat, and shut the trunk. Angelica sprinted out of the front door two stories up, and Boupha broke into laughter, “Hahaha! Who’s running late, now Angel?!”

Angelica rounded a bend in the outside staircase like she was trying to channel the Roadrunner, himself. The mental image of that alone almost made Boupha cry with laughter.

“Shut _up_! I’m _coming!”_

Boupha took immense joy in _not_ shutting up and continuing to laugh and point at her best friend for the unspeakable, and horrible crime of waking her up, then stealing the rest of the Aunt Jemima’s she had been saving. Like some kind of syrup berserker. 

“Come on! We’re going to be late for the parade!”

“ _Shush_!”

“Haha! Nah! I-Call-The-Shotgun-Not-Driving! ”

“Ugh! You’re such a turd!” Boupha grinned, jingling the keys smugly, and hopping into the passenger seat to make herself comfortable. Angelica opened the door, slipped into the driver seat, and gave her a long surly stare, still puffing from her little impromptu jog. Boupha smiled insipidly, really laying the insufferablness neatly inside the lines of her grin. The car is silent for a few moments before Angelica's shoulders slumped and she blew a few stray hairs from her face. 

“You’re lucky you’re _cute_.” Boupha tossed her the keys, and she caught them in one hand. They were off soon after they left the apartment gate. Soon, all was right in the world when her grumpiness was lost three songs into the drive. 

They chatted idly between songs, and podcasts, and swapped a few jibes in between but the mood was light, and the chatter was fun. Just trying to guess who might be in the flight brigade got Boupha bouncing in her seat. It was going to be hell finding parking in Metropolis, but the fourth only came once a year, and it was a special holiday. It was going to be a good time, and getting to rest her eyes in the passenger seat was its own simple pleasure (despite how much shit Ange gave her for it). Boupha threw a few lazy insults back her way from under the ball cap pulled low over her eyes. She loaded up the car, so it was only fair. It was strange, though. 

_Hope the big three turn up, they’ve been MIA, lately... And I need some heroes in my life right now, dammit. Man- I don’t feel like I got much sleep last night. I’m tired... Did I have a nightmare, again? Weird. can’t remember what it was about._

Boupha opened an eye, and peered at Angelica from under her cap. The only reason she didn’t get an eye full of summer sun was because Angelica’s head was in the way. It lined her jaw, and illuminated her frame like someone put a halo around her shoulders. As much as she cried over it, her new hair style really suited her. Boupha pulled the cap back down, chastising herself. 

_...Ah, well. Doesn’t matter now, I guess. Might as well let dreams be dreams._

* * *

The parade was everything it was hyped up to be in the news. Balloons, colored chalk shows, brass bands, and confetti colored the mild winds intermittently blowing through the street fairs down the plaza. There were a lot of bars full of open patios, and people happily chattering over brunch. Why have brunch when there was a parade running, was something far beyond her, but Boupha almost screamed when a green blip in the sky flew closer. The costume wasn’t recognizable, but even far away the hero looked small. Maybe a sidekick? Not part of the flight brigade, then, but definitely a member of the color squad. A banner trailing out behind him read:

 **H-A-P-P-Y** **4TH** **of** **J-U-L-Y** **:** **AIR SHOW, 11:15 AM, ES**

She almost shook Angelica out of her skin trying to contain herself. she just laughed and complained about her messing up her hair. There was so much to look at. So much to do, and see, and take in. The parade was so diverse, it was fantastical. 

Dancers, street performers, and all sorts of different theater companies broke out their color guards to put on a show for everyone in attendance. Banks, larger companies, and other well-to-do PR stunts came in the form of overly lavish floats that glittered in the sun, and free vouchers for a sandwich, or some kind of lolly pop, or just some low interest rates at probably less than ideal prices. 

_Leave it to banks to cash in on kids grabbing for candy. Ugh._

There were a few veteran walks—hero and citizen status—and a lot of different orchestras, and marching bands that took turns carrying old tunes that had been traditionally honored by different battalions over the years. For the newer ones, the crowd even chanted the battle songs of a few fan-favorites. Lots of local charities and organizations had banners, bells, and volunteers walking in their place. Sidekicks ran around coordinating different troops moving forwards, and speaking over hand radio to dodge traffic. All in different colored t-shirts, or costumes. All in all it was cute and fun.

Rainbow confetti fell like snow from the tops of the buildings, and much to Angelica’s annoyance, stuck in her hair. Stand-still performers (like fire breathers), outlet malls had their doors propped open in welcome, and greasy food truck stalls lined the same street. The air drifted along with golden smells and fried, blissfully fatty goodies at every turn. The wind fluttered with color. Life was good. The street fair was in full swing, and there was lots to buy. Street vendors woven into every corner and alley path sold handmade art, jewelry glowed, and tons of superhero-themed merchandise popped up on most table tops like daisies. This is what heaven looked like.

They spent almost an hour weaving around everything, and preventing each other from getting distracted. Angelica came out of the fray with a churro in her hand, and Boupha followed up the rear shamelessly brandishing an armful of new merchandise. It got her a look. She pointedly ignored it.

The noise, the colors, the smells of several hundred dishes wafting through the streets, the general excitement?! It was all just so _enthralling_! Dangerous as the city could be, they knew how to party! And the flight brigade was just the cherry that topped the sundae. 

Goldenheart was the lead for that year. Boupha happily would have gone deaf watching them. The crowd roared. It was a pretty impressive show. They were spectacular, and seemed to use the air space and ‘city settling’ to their advantage to perform a flight show with a silent story. Well, mostly silent. 

The brass bands were a wonder all of their own, and their role in the flight brigade’s performance was a spectacular shock once they started in at exactly 11:15AM. Almost twenty different troops that were scattered around the city streets had all united in a checkerboard formation roughly a mile apart from one another to assist the flight brigade’s long awaited performance. While they had been blasting their own insigma’s theme for most of the parade, now they that the heroes had taken to the skies, the grand medley piece they all had seemingly been waiting on echoed off of buildings, all around the city like a giant surround sound speaker. It gave the grand illusion that this was the live shot of a movie, with all the theatrical flare of practiced professionals. It must have taken weeks to choreograph. 

Heroes selected for the flight bridge came in fast over the horizon on a bridge of gold. It was a gleaming honey shine, that colored the sky around them with a dazzling glow, even in the bright of day. A group of about six others followed him up, bowing up in an angled high rise once they reached the air space over the city limits, and separating into different directions.

Once the main branches of heroes broke off, Goldenheart grinned, and flew forwards. Spiraling, throwing glowing waves of sparks that glittered in the sun, and showing off his controlled dives and flight tricks. The crowd was so enamored with the flashing acrobatics that they almost didn’t notice the other heroes. Or their costume changes. The air around them warped, flooding inwards, and familiar faces came out of the warp with darker visages cast over their flight suits. Very realistic visages. Even from a distance, it wasn’t hard to make out who they were costumed as.

Boupha recognized them in under a heartbeat. 

The heroes were… dressing up as villains? For the Flight Brigade?

Goldenheart, pretending to be oblivious, spun different kinds of glowing beams in his hands like batons, then rocketed them up into the air. Once the objects flew high enough into the sky to disappear, he made a ‘gun’ shape with his hand and fired off a few quick balls of light from the tips of his fingers. The baton-like objects shattered like clay pigeons, and sparkling gold cascades colored the sky with a supernatural glory. Throwing up cover for the costume changes, while also entertaining the crowd. Once enough dust had cleared, roughly six different battalion division crests unveiled themselves, spinning slowly mid-air over different precincts.

To give some credit where it was due, the transition was flawless and fun to look at . 

If you weren’t paying attention, it would be easy to think the parade had been invaded (if you couldn’t take a hint from the musical score taking a turn for the villainous), even with all the glitter and gold. A lot of the kids watching from the sidewalk flapped their arms in warning, not quite understanding that this was a part of the show, and pointing back at the six villain caricatures with obvious fear on their faces. Black smoke bombs popped behind them, painting the sky a series of blacks, purples, and teals that carried eerily on the winds above Goldenheart’s display. A lot of them tried to yell at him from their patch of grass or curbside, and point back at the crowd of villains closing in on him. 

Goldenheart made a show of turning around, seemingly (comically) shocked, and diving out of the way of someone dressed as Mawrsprite just in the nick of time. Boupha laughed a little incredulously.

Does Mawrsprite even fly? That’s so cheeky. _God_. Where is this going? Better yet, how are they doing that?! A perception power? I wonder where they are. None of the brigade members up there can do _that_. Maybe some kind of new apprentice?

All of the heroes in the brigade moved to the music with an almost unreal attention to how the piece dropped and rose in tempo. Goldenheart was manipulating his own glow to form different shapes and symbols as he flew by (crests?), while someone else, somewhere else, was projecting image templates onto the other heroes to make them look like bad guys. Every hero moved in tandem, but with different intent.

It was a performance to behold. The energy rippling through the crowds seemed to reduce even hardened, old men back into excited toddlers as everyone in the audience gaped and cawed in approval. The crowd was starstruck by all the color and movement, and Boupha was no exception.

Now that the “bad guys” were on the move, the stationery battalion crests that Goldenheart had been weaving between to escape the “villains” morphed, and then reformed. The crests remolded into silhouettes set in the vague, gold outline of a hero with the battalion crests flashing on the figure’s chest. They almost seemed to flash, before solidifying, and following suit. Giving chase after the pod of villains tailing Goldenheart, and trying to fight him. When the first “villain” and “hero” paired off to fight, it finally clicked what the show was about this year, and Boupha gasped.

"It’s a symbolic mock fight! A mock dogfight, Ange! Just look at that!”

More “villains” dove at Goldenheart—all top contenders for the world’s worst—and one-by-one, the different battalion insignias dove upwards to intercept their attack. Goldenheart made a show of pretending to struggle. Dodging and ducking past them all, throwing punches that didn’t quite land, and kicks that never connected, but his face lit up once the battalion insignias came to his aid.

Battalion personifications tackled villains mid-air, wrestling them away from Goldenheart, and working together to toss the lot of them around. Goldenheart, freer to help now that he wasn’t fighting off five people at once, began to help them. The tide, seemingly turned, and the “villains” retreated. All of the baddies fled to the top of the IHL building with fearful expressions on their faces, often dragging each other down and trying to get away. 

All of the “heroes” looked at one another, shared a nod, and with grins that flashed proudly, flew in unison to the top of the building, fists raised. The "villain’s" scrambling intensified, and just as they reached the top of the building, they crashed into them. A blinding explosion followed the top of the music’s crescendo, and most people watching had to hide their eyes from the sheer intensity of the glamour. A sudden drop in the music had confused citizens looking around once the flash receded, but all eyes came to rest atop the IHL building with stunned awe.

All seven of the heroes stood proudly, the smokey afterimage of a black hat already falling apart under the glare of the International Hero League’s symbol glowing radiantly above the city. Bigger, and brighter, and stronger looking than any one of the battalions’ crests. Soon the wind carried the rest of the smoke apart, and only the heroes stood there, victorious, bathed in golden-white light. When the IHL’s theme began to play, the hushed crowd lost their minds, and applause clattered through the air like another branch of the percussion had suddenly appeared. People whistled and crowded with whooping adulation, and soon everyone was in an absolute uproar. Boupha hung on Angelica’s shoulder, eye’s glittering, before jumping off of the sidewalk to try to see the IHL logo from a better angle. 

“ _Did you see that?!_ Angel, Did you _see_ that?! That was the best air show the Brigade’s ever pulled off! _Holy_ _shit!_ That was some Disney magic kingdom shit, dude!” She yelled over her shoulder. Goldenheart started waving at people, and one of the other heroes broke from formation, laughing, and forced him to put his hand down. Boupha laughed, cheeks pink with glee. “Hey, Ange, do you wanna backtrack to the street fair? I know we’re supposed to check in a Dewwater Park by like three, but didn’t you wan-”

Angelica wasn’t there when she turned, and the smile plastered on Boupha’s face waned a fraction. Raising her voice a fraction, she started to look through the people clapping and holding their children up on their shoulders. People were trying to make as much noise as possible, and with the cowbells, the paper horns, and the confetti mini poppers going off in all directions, so yelling only padded more white noise to the loud calamity of the already busy street. The bands picking up their own branch hymn, and going on to their other pieces only worsened that. 

“Angel?! Where are you?!”

A group of kids ran down the side street, and someone yelled after them. People shoe-horned forwards into the street now that the show was winding down to get better looks at the tower top or snap pictures. All trying to get a better look, than the other. Boupha stepped back as they pushed forward. 

“w-whoa- _Hey_ , buddy back off! Angelica?! Dude! Ollie-ollie-otsen-free! I’m getting swamped, and I’m gonna lose you in this mess if you don’t come save me! Ow, _stop_ pushing! Angelica?!” The crowd didn’t seem to hear her and a wave of people pushed forwards, unwillingly carrying her along with them, even when she tried to fight her way back to the sidewalk. They’d just been standing there together. Where _was_ she? Angelica couldn’t have just run off without saying anything, that wasn’t like her. Nobody paid any mind to how much she tried to push back, nor did anyone seem to hear her trying to cry out over the jubilant roar of the festivities. Boupha tried to shoulder her way past people, only for five or more people to push forwards like a riptide, and carry her farther away from their folding chairs at the edge of the grass. All happy smiles, and joyful screams.

Angelica couldn’t be seen. Boupha’s stomach turned with uncertainty, frowning. Everything was so _normal_ before she lost sight of her. _Hell_ , better than normal, it was a celebration. But now something seemed… iffy. Boupha turned all the way around, jumping up and looking around frantically. Person to person. Face to face. None of them were _right_. 

“Angelica?! Ange! I can’t- I can’t stop! Where are you?! Where did you go?!” Growing fed up when she once again got corralled back another five meters, she shoved the man who'd been unintentionally strong-arming her in reverse, glaring him down. Bristling, thoroughly pissed off at being manhandled so much. "Hey, buddy. I don't know what your damage is, but knock it off! I-I'm trying to-" 

Her expression deflated, eyes widening in bewilderment and trepidation.

 _...What the_ fuck _?!_

The man looked down at her, confused. 

His face was littered in holes. Gaping, black spots seemed to burrow inwards like some kind of parasite had eaten its way in. A cloth that was eaten away by a colony of moths had more substance to it. When he smiled loose holes of flesh squished into half-moons at his smile lines, making the expression look too wide to fit on his modest build. Far too stretched out.The longer she looked at them, the more they seemed to gape like tiny, porous mouths. Opening. Closing. Twitching, internally, in the exposed air and flexing oddly.

A few were rather large. Large enough that muscle groups could be seen underneath. The meat in his cheeks were a shiny pink. The space where the left eye seemed to have been was the largest one, and while nothing sat behind the socket anymore there was something deeper inside of it, just barely glinting back at her. It was hard to see at first, and given how deep the miniature holes seemed to be it was probably better not to think about it, but the color caught her attention enough to put her in a stand-still, and she stared at it incredulously. It was an opaque, bubble gum pink fluid. Something dense, like Pepto-Bismol that oozed out of them slowly, and dripped downwards. Sometimes it would slip into other porous indentations in his face, and other times, it would build up too much to be contained, and finally rundown the sides of his face to meet at the point of his chin. Despite how much of the holes cut away at his eyes and nose, their existence went completely unnoticed. 

For the crowd surrounding them, the mess went unnoticed, and so did their interaction. They cheered and bubbled around them, oblivious.

“Do you need something…?” He asked politely, tilting his head slightly. He smiled at her, but the longer she stayed close to him, the more he seemed to deteriorate. The skin on his neck began to sluff off like he was melting in the early afternoon sunshine. Cringing, she backed away like a prey animal spooked. The man watched her, and against her own gut instincts, Boupha let the crowd carry her farther. If only to put space between the two of them. She just had to get away for now, and somehow regroup with Angelica. _Wherever_ she was .

The man repeated himself, conversationally, as if his one good eye wasn’t tracking her movement through the crowds that didn’t see her or staring at her, unblinking and wholly focused on her. He sounded quieter the further away she got, and he faded into the clamor of background noise, but even far away, she could still see his mouth moving around the words, “Do you need something…?”

He stayed in his place, perfectly still, like he was a mounted pole in the middle of the street, and not a living person prone to shifting movement. Attention honed exclusively on her. She didn’t need more of a reason to get out of there. The masses tossing Boupha down the middle of the walk didn’t even really seem to touch him, just moved around him like water on oil.

All those factors, separate and by themselves, wouldn't have raised any red flags. 

She would have been less apprehensive about all the small details to the interaction, but something felt wrong with it all. It wasn’t just his shocking appearance, it was because he was just… _wrong_. There wasn’t _anything_ right about him. 

A lot of people looked different. Not everyone in modern society looked fully human, it was more normal than not to see someone with fins, or horns, or overall just different, but that never bothered her before this. Those were just people, though. This man was... something else. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. He didn’t stop watching her, or asking that same question as she slunk away. He really wasn’t overtly threatening. He wasn’t making any move to attack her. He wasn’t making any moves to follow her, and he didn’t even really move. 

In fact, he’d only really asked her a question, but there was a distinct menace to his presence that _lingered_. It stayed on the tips of her nerves like an electrical field, and she didn't need more reason than that. 

It was hard to explain outside her own head, but she was the only one out of thousands of people milling around that seemed to be aware that the guy just didn’t _belong_. He was a part of the scenery, another person in the clatter of the crowd. And then, all the sudden he wasn’t. For everyone else, he was just another thing to walk past. Another structure. Another idle thing that was so insignificant, that it didn’t matter enough to pay attention to it.

Boupha knew better. Intrinsically aware that something had shifted. 

He wasn’t just a typical human being, or any mix of supernatural lineages, lines, or legions. He was just _something else_. It was it's own category. It unnerved her to no end, and getting away became her main focus, even while seeking out Angelica. Chills followed her like a pair of eyes at her back, and neither the cluster of people slugging her around, nor the sun’s scorch could drive it out completely. His eyes were still on her. 

She didn’t have to turn around and look for him to know that, but she ended up doing it, anyways. Boupha checked over her shoulder constantly. Near neurotic about him moving, but he just stood there, and repeated himself. Over, and over, and _over_ again. Not pursuing her, but calling after her in a way that made her feel like she was being _chased_. Boupha double checked over her shoulder, dodging the swarms of people and turning in tight circles to see if anyone of importance was trying to flag her down. 

No one was there. 

That, or she was just too lost in a sea of people to have any hope of being found. The thought made her middle drop out, and flatten manically. Everything seemed too much, now.

“Angelica?! Ack! O-oh, come on, just let me through!” Boupha yelled, fruitlessly pushing at people boxing her in, “Angelica! Where are you?! _Ange_!?” Less than ten minutes ago she was having the time of her life. The sights, the sounds, the music, the people. It was _fun_. It was. Angelica was right beside her, almost hanging off of her arm, and now she was... scared? Overwhelmed? No, that wasn’t right. How could that be right? She wasn’t all alone, here. _Right_? 

The throb of unease pinched her chest and grew.

It couldn’t be right... Maybe that guy was freaky enough to spook her a little, but there were heroes _everywhere_! And people! In the middle of the day! It was all the worst conditions for someone to attack her. She didn’t want to feel so desolate, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in immediate danger. There was some unknown peril she couldn’t place. Some kind of looming threat. There were so many people, but none of them made her feel any safer. Staying in a crowd was one of the first rules to basic city safety, but all the same Boupha felt removed from all of these people. 

Even pressing against a wall of people, she felt alone.

In the same sense the man wasn’t a part of the scene anymore, neither was she. They were walking in a streamline reality to the parade, but they weren’t a part of it anymore. Peeking over her shoulder and turning her eyes back on the congested path, she catches his eyes again. His mouth hung open in either silent agony, or a gross parody of an open-mouthed smile. Pink slid off his temples like candle wax, and his form seemed like it was distorting and crumpling. Melting? He was rotting in real time. No one noticed. Everyone was too distracted by the parade, or else… he just didn’t exist to them. Boupha looked around for a hero. They'd been passing by all day, but now none of them seemed to be in the area. With no short order of confusion, Boupha realized there weren’t even any heroes on top of the IHL Tower anymore. 

_Where are the heroes? Why is everyone just going along with this?!_

“Angelica?!” Boupha’s eyes needled across the fanfare, but despite all of the treats and trinkets beckoning at her, she felt like everything was suddenly wrong. A kernel of unease clenched in the middle of her chest. 

_Where the_ hell _is Angelica?!_

Boupha alternated between shrugging people away, and letting the natural flow of the crowd carry her, but no matter how far she seemed to walk, the distance she progressed didn’t change. Someone would turn to look at her periodically, but no one seemed to throw a thought at why she was so freaked out. It was oddly isolating. Impersonal.

“ _Do you need something…_? ”

Boupha panicked a little, and for half a terror-stricken second, she thought the man had teleported just behind her shoulder. Her mind’s eye showed her the globby, pink mess of the man’s corroding face, before she actually turned around to see who it was really speaking to her. There was a woman, now, a touch of concern on her face, and a hand on her shoulder. She seemed like she was trying to say, ‘are you alright’ but the only thing Boupha heard was, “ _Do you need something..._? ” in its place. Audio plastered over reality. Boupha backed away from her. A child with dark hair, and blue eyes peeked out from behind her hip. 

There were more people looking at her, now. Questions in their eyes. Most everyone was still a part of the crowd, but an uneven trail of faces had turned to face her. 

They didn’t move. They just stared at her. Unblinking. Wide eyed, but without a drop of fear. 

There was only a smiling malice.

The pink man’s face was almost completely eaten away. He was the first one. Disfigured, and corroded, but still standing, his maw still in a yawn that now permanently folded open. Next to him was a crowd of three boys, that like him, had crooked spines and contorted limbs, however, unlike the pink man, they dropped different colors like oil paintings. One orange, one purple, one blue. They were too far away to really see if there were more of those burrowed holes riddling their flesh, but following the line of faces turned her way, Boupha realized that these were all the people she’d touched in an effort to get through the crowd. All in variant stages of decay, all mouthing the same phrase her way with stretching mouths, and widening expressions targeted at her. All different colors.

People carried on around them. Still cheering, still waving, and reaching out to the tops of the IHL Tower. Elbowing one another affectionately, or trying to yell something over the excited babble of the crowd. Families were celebrating. Lots of friends chatted in large groups down the walk, and kids wove between legs tearing after one another. Boupha found she couldn’t understand the crowd, or what they said to one another, when she tried to. It was all nonsense. The lighthearted chatter, and the jubilation was a pristine capture that existed untouched by the current dilemma, and separate from the congealing messes that wore people away like sand sculptures the longer they stared at her.

The clash was getting to her. 

The noises were _too_ many, and the smells were _too_ much. There were so many people looking her way, but too few listening to her. No one spoke at her, but everyone spoke around her. They asked questions they didn’t want an answer for. 

What were they really asking for? What were they really asking? Was this all her own fault…? What was the common denominator here? It took a few seconds to get one.

 _Are they… falling apart… because, I_ touched _them?_

Boupha drew her arms instinctively, looking around wildly when someone else bumped into her. When their joints started to curl, Boupha gasped.

“I- I-I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to-” She whispered, her voice lost in the uproarious sea of celebration just outside of their connection. All of the ensnared people stared at her, intently. Eyeing her even while they withered to pieces. _Waiting_.

The tension was palpable, but it didn't last long. Something broke their stare down. They all rocked back on the balls of their heels slightly, before rushing at her all at once.

Broken, destroyed, and disjointed as they were, they wove through the other parade patrons like eels. Their hands were reaching out for her. Gurgling maws, and clawing hands tore at her skin like a pack of dogs trying to rip something six ways at once. Boupha slapped and punched, and spit at them. Fighting to get free. Once they got their hands on her, the rest of the crowd seemed to turn. Color bloomed out of their faces, and they froze in statuesque still frames of their last living actions. The IHL tower was empty.

Boupha screamed for Angelica one last time, but the world dropped out from under her before she could say anything else.

* * *

Boupha jerked into awareness when the car stopped short and her seat belt caught her neck. Angelica cursed, and laid on the horn pretty hard in the direction of a white minivan.

“Dick…” She muttered, half scoffing once the light turned green. Boupha grunted, sitting up, only to realize that she had a lot more sore spots now than when she fell asleep. Her back popped for the second time that day and she hissed. The sun was so bright that the only reason she probably fell asleep at _all_ was the baseball cap she had pulled over her eyebrows. Angelica noticed her stirring, and grinned.

“Oh. _Morning_ , Burham. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“...Where-”

“Route 45, _baby_! Almost _there_ , and almost _square_!”

“No, where did- you weren’t....” Boupha started, but didn’t finish. They were in the car. When did they get back in the car? Were they still on their way to the parade? Boupha looked around with a little disorientation fluttering in front of her lashes.

After a moment, Angelica rolled her wrist, and prompted her on with a, “I wasn’t...?” that hung in the air like the hum of the car engine. Boupha looked at her, obviously distressed, and feeling the line of her throat. Pale, and visibly confused. Her eyes scanned over the clock on the car dash, and the passing forest on the outside. 3:42 PM. _Are we on route to Dewwater…?_ Angelica peeked at her a little, also frowning, and suddenly a fraction less jovial. 

“Boupha, are you okay? I know you almost had a heart attack when the Flight Brigade finally managed to show up, but you dropped like a rock once you bounced back into the car.”

Boupha rubbed a hand against her eyes roughly, and sighed, “ Yeah. Yep! Freaky dreams. I think I’m getting night terrors, again, Ange. That got... really bad and _weird_.” A _really_ bad, and weird one.

“It could be the sketchy food truck we hit up, too.” 

_...Food truck…? We went to a food truck?_

Boupha nodded, but didn’t remember. The lingering discomfort from the dream didn’t sit well with her, but rather than let it linger, she tried to shrug it off, and force a smile. “...Yeah, yeah. Haha. It probably wasn’t smart to eat half your churro, either…”

Angelica gaped, “That was _you_?! I thought I dropped it!” 

“Mhm! the cinnamon was calling to me… I think I just saved you from a clown dream, or five, though, Angel. We hit up some pretty bad food stops if my eczma’s anything to go by.” Boupha smiled, happily guiltless when she had to choke on seat belt before she could escape a bunch of color stained weirdos. 

_So_ weird _. I wonder what that even meant._

Angelica huffed saltily. “...You owe me a smore.” Boupha snickered, pulling her cap back down. The sun was too damn bright out, but it felt heavenly through the window, and Boupha relaxed a bit and nodded. 

“Yeah, I... I guess I do .” Angelica hummed, and turned into a path with Dewwater Park’s giant yellow sign. The GPS said something about another turn off in a quarter mile, and Boupha sat back stiffly in her seat. Angelica glanced over at her after about a minute of silence. 

“...We can… Go home. If you want to, you know?”

“I know.” 

“They’re nice people, Boupha.”

“...I know.”

Angelica hated to sit in silence, so it only took another three minutes until she cracked. "Did you crash immediately after we started driving? Have you always done that, Boo-boo?”

“No!” Boupha retorted a little too defensively. 

Angelica hopped on her rebuttal in a second. “Hahahaha, _oh my god_ , does the car really make you sleepy? Is that why you always fight me for the passenger seat? Ahahaha, oh my god! If I knew that’s all it took you to conk out, I would have driven you around during finals week! ”Angelica laughed, a scandalized grin crawling across her face. 

“No! Not always, just like- when I eat a lot! Like the Fourth of July! I’m completely within my right to crash when I want to!”

Angelica laughed at her almost the whole way to the camp grounds, and all though the ranger grilled them about how many fines they would get if they shot anything off during drought season, they shared a look once they were out of sight. Campground passes and car permits were bought and paid for. They had to drive slowly since the road was gravel and not much else, but it gave them some time to get back into the swing of things. It was good. Being comfortable was good, and so were the people they were going to meet. She would get to share a tent with Angel, and things would be fine. If they weren’t … Angelica was already ready to pack up. It was all fine. 

_I’m not going to ruin this for her. Let’s just... deal with it. And hopefully we’ll make some friends. It’s going to be fine. They’re friends with Angelica, so it’s gonna be fine._

And really, things were. 

Andre Desculli, and Mackenzie Sprice were nice people, with nice lives, and a nicer cooler than hers with a couple different kinds of soda. They were the first ones there. More people came, and Boupha forgot all of their names just as quickly as they got handed out. They all took turns claiming patches of the forest floor, and periodically looking up Youtube videos about how to put a tent together. It was an adventure that lasted three hours, and ended in five tents, and almost twelve, exhausted twenty-somethings ruing the day they all decided camping was a great idea. 

The general consensus was to lounge and bum around after that. Once everyone got bored of just listening to Spotify on the bluetooth speaker of some guy’s car, they all ran down to the lake like a large amoeba of sweaty morons. It was actually a fun day, even if she barely knew anyone.

The lake was almost too cold, but the sun was almost too hot, and the company was almost too much, but Boupha found that all of it together was pretty tolerable. A lot more than she thought it might be. Odd jokes got tossed around, lots of food got shared, and by the evening, everyone was long dried off, and cooking lukewarm hotdogs over the fire.

That had also taken an hour. The hotdogs tasted pleasantly charred. Scary stories got recycled after some time, and others chipped in with their own personal anecdotes. The atmosphere got cozy, and someone pulled sparklers out of the bed of their car. 

“How did you even sneak those in?!”

“I worked my magic!”

"You seduced the ranger…?”

“He was seduced by Ben Franklin, Mike. Fuck you very much.”

“That Franklin guy works fast for a five dollar bill, are you sure?”

“Mike… How did we pass the same grade?”

“I cheated off of you, mostly.”

“Cool. While I’m rethinking some fundamental things about trust, who wants a sparkler?”

Boupha got about five.

_Ah, Rainbow sparklers… A man after my own heart, at last._

The sparklers were a very nostalgic thing that most people could attest to liking. Colorful, bright pixie sticks that changed color the moment you set them on fire. It was a surefire hit among kids, and the initial excitement you got when one caught was ageless. Turning a group of young adults into five year-olds only took about three minutes, tops. Mackenzie broke up the sparkler jousting at some point into Boupha’s third one, on the grounds that they either had to hold them over the campfire , or they had to go down to the lake to let them off. Smokey the Bear channeled enough of his wrath into her to get everyone to eventually comply. 

It was darker, now, and so most people trampled off down the path to go run around in the water, again while literally playing with fire, and Mackenzie followed suit out of budding concern. The camp quieted down. Andre was more focused on setting up a grate over the fire to cook hotdogs, and tin foiled potatoes on, and was happy to have a few people to chat back and forth with while he worked. Boupha set the fourth sparkler on fire, when Angelica seemed to remember something, and slapped her knee with a snap of frustration.

“Ahhh! Bobo, we didn’t take any pictures! That’s what I was forgetting! I should have known I couldn’t trust you to remind me!”

“...Of what?” Boupha asked a little dumbly.

“Of the parade, dumb dumb! We forgot to take Fourth of July pictures!”

“It’s still the Fourth of July, Ange.”

“ Oh, You know what I mean! We saw an air show cool enough for you to almost pass out from crying with joy, and I have no blackmail to throw in your face, now. It’s a damn shame! A _shame_! ” Boupha sniggered, and rolled her eyes lightly. Ah, the pictures. Ever the popular holiday debate.

“Ha! I guess you should have put a few more weeks into planning your revenge plot! No Fourth of July pictures for you!”, Boupha grinned cheekily. Angelica’s whole face dropped into fully realized misery.

“No! Boupha! It was my only chance. Please take pity on me, and take a picture. Come on, I won’t turn this into the photo shoot from Halloween, just take a quickie with me!”

“Nah, I’m good with my sparklers.”

“Boupha.” Pulling her name out a long as she could, she pouts at her.

“Nope.”

“Bo-Bo!”

“No.”

“Yes, take a picture with me. I command you.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“You ate my fucking nightmare churro take a fucking picture with me you, _dick_. ” Andre raised an eyebrow at them, but merely stood by while they went back and forth. A hair uncomfortable, Boupha slid back in her seat. Shit. I kinda forgot he was there. Sorry, guy.

“What’s a ‘nightmare churro’?”

“Boupha pilfered my churro at the parade, and then had a nightmare fit in the car because she’s a _thief_ who _owes me a picture_ , and I fully believe in divine punishment." She blustered. Andre’s other eyebrow slid up to meet the first. 

“Alright… Sure, I’ll take that. Do you two want me to hold the camera?” He carried on.

“Oh! _Yeah_!”

“I thought you were the neutral third party in this, Andre.” Boupha scolded. 

“Hey, I’m not putting it past Angelica, photographer extraordinaire, but you do owe her half a churro. So I say by the rules of unrestrained gluttony you owe a picture, and that’s a fair trade off.”

“Yeah, Boupha!”

“Alright. I give. I thought creepy daytime nightmares were enough penance for you, but I can do that other ways. I’m going to complain the whole time, though.”

Angelica smiled, flipped her thumb around her phone's touch lock, and victoriously marched it around to Andre when it clicked open. Andre took it out of her hand, and for his part, took the job very seriously. He wasn’t the novice that Angelica was, but he did a good job setting things up, and directing them to scooch together. He only got about two pictures in before it died; Angelica looked like someone spat in her cheerios. Boupha tried very hard to hold in a quip about divine justice, but her repressed snickering didn’t go unnoticed, and still earned her a look.

“Look, that wasn't my fault, Angel.” Boupha said, not particularly hiding how much joy she was taking out of this. Angelica glared at her, sticking her lower lip forward. It shouldn’t have drawn her attention, but as soon as Boupha caught herself staring at it a little too much, she coughed. Angelica seemed to take that as her trying to pass off the laughter poorly, and without meaning to Boupha jumped to her own defense. “It’s not! I am blameless! Here, look, I got mine handy.” Boupha pulled her Samsung out of her back pocket with a flourish, offered it out to her, “Use mine to your poor heart’s content, and I’ll send you the pics later, 'kay?”

Angelica looked her up and down suspiciously, and Boupha wanted to laugh at her again. So untrusting… Although, after Halloween I guess that I deserve that. Memes are a valid art form, though, and I stand by it. Boupha wiggled the phone a little, and Angelica finished putting a case file in her head together long enough to take it, cautiously.

“Alright. _Fine_. And just so we’re clear, for the record, you’ve officially redeemed all the brownie points you lost stealing carnival food from me, but you better not edit something weird into them, later! I’ll see it, and I’ll throw you onto the streets with the coyotes! I _will_ , Bobo! I’m a cruel woman deep, _deep_ in my soul, and the desecration of my poor holiday pictures will be met with the fury of a thousand suns,” Angelica muttered, a mighty rage in the finger she was trying to waggle in Boupaha’s face. 

Maybe that edit with the Halloween pictures was too much, but for what it was worth, she always kept the untouched versions for Angelica, too. Boupha chuckled over all the dramatics anyways, and passed Angelica the phone so Andre would finally be able to go back to minding his hotdogs instead of unintentionally playing peanut gallery to two arguing idiots. It didn’t mean Boupha was tired of it, though. What was the spice of life without variation, or a little dramatic banter to pass the time? Milking the melodramatics of the situation was one of the best parts of the holidays, and a wild grin tickled her cheeks. Angelica seemed to tune into that same silliness in a heartbeat. It was one of the things that just made talking with her easy. Comfortable. 

“Ohoho, I have no doubt. I always knew you wanted to cross over to the dark side. I shake in my boots every time you try not to cry whenever the baby animals get chased by something in your two hour nature shows. You’re so scary when you sob into your waffles!” That one earned her a punch to the arm, and Boupha finally lost enough of her stitched composure to start giggling. It hurt a lot more than she was expecting.

_Ouch! Where do you go to the gym, fight club? Don’t smite me over jibe!_

“You’re so _rude_ to me, I gave you my phone and you’re beating me to a pulp!”

“You started it, you turd!”

“Did not!”

“Yeah, you _did_ , you-”

Andre raised his hand, awkwardly, “...Can I take the picture, now?” Boupha smiled at the poor guy sheepishly, and nodded. In a gesture of goodwill, Boupha offered Angelica her last sparkler as a peace offering. If the phone wasn’t enough, then something you could light on fire was just as good.Stirring her up was fun, but she didn’t want her genuinely mad, either. Besides, it was a holiday, and although the classical dancing around the picture issues were a timely occasion that really marked a day, Angelica had suffered through enough. Tis’ the season for lighting shit ablaze with the people you love, and hold dear. 

Angelica took it without a second thought. Seems like someone’s not as mad as she’s letting on, either. Ha!

“You want to light the sparklers for the picture, Ange? It’s your picture.” Angelica considered it a moment on an audible hum, but after a moment, she just jabbed a log and grinned back at her. Angelica pulled something from behind the cloth foldout chair she was lounging in, and it took a second for Boupha to realize that Angelica just gave her a sparkler, too. 

“Did you trade me a sparkler for a sparkler…?”

“It’s for the picture! You burn all of your stuff up the same way you eat.”

“I- Alright, touche. But _rude_.”

“It’s not rude, it's a _fact_ , Boo-Boo.”

“You wound me so much, it’s cruel. You’re supposed to be my bestie, and you’re constantly ragging on me, and making me smooch sock monkeys. I _can_ and _will_ report you. This violates the eighth amendment, you know. You may be this cute, little nature girl on the outside, but you’re just a cackling little goblin on the inside, ” Boupha pouted. Angelica was the one who started laughing, then.

“Boupha, light the sparkler,” She said with a puff of laughter underneath her words. Boupha lit the sparkler, and Andre finally seemed to let out a sigh of relief.

“Okay. Guys. Cheese? I can’t just hold off forever, you guys are going to ruin the second round of dogs.” Angelica threw an arm around Boupha’s shoulders happily, pulling her close and smiling. The Sparkler fizzed to green, hissing and spitting embers. Boupha’s was a glowing white still.

“Fire away! _Cheese_! ” Angelica crowed. Boupha flashed a smile across the fire lopsidedly, pulling her own face into an awkward grin that probably paled pretty badly to Angelica’s, but put enough effort into being sincere for her to feel more comfortable. Ah, holiday pictures. At least they were quick. 

“Yeah, Happy Fourth, Ange. Cheese, Andre. ”

The phone’s flash went off a couple of times, and Angelica leapt up happily to go see them like she’d just been offered a basket of kittens. It was, admittedly, a little cute, and Boupha smiled warmly at it, but just stayed where she was. She didn’t need to see them. She never really needed to see them, because they were pictures. Pictures were always a strange point of contention for Boupha. A lot of people loved pictures, and thousands of people could just spend thousands of hours adding thousands of the things to their walls—digital or otherwise—but it was just hard. Hard for her to understand, sometimes, when she had a lot of things she would rather forget, and leave in the past. 

There weren’t a lot of memories that Boupha wanted to remember, growing up, now. A lot of it just hurt. Remembering them was a task that made her far too bitter to feel sweet about them, and forcing it mostly just made her realize they were ruined beyond all repair. They ever reminded her of what was lacking in the present. After she filled enough days crying, and feeling sorry for herself, it didn’t seem worth looking back at them. Pictures just made things worse more times than not. Living for the moment was the only reliable way to live life, and remember the way things had been, in her own opinion, was just a lazy way to torture yourself; things were different with Angelica.

Angelica _loved_ documenting things. Her life was all photography. Photography and photographs, and cameras were another opportunity to make memories, and frame special events to steal away. Crisp colored captures that showed you were a part of another person’s life. Cameras traveled everywhere with her, and she had apparently toted on around since she was a tween. With the skill-set she had now, she could be a professional photographer, or a scrapbooker if she really wanted to be, but she tended to throw that idea to the wayside, and just keep it a hobby. 

Outings, friend-days, birthdays, hikes, and the things they’d find, holidays, ect. All of it was a chance to take pictures for Angelica. Some things were just meant to be hobbies for certain people, and photography was Angelica’s calling. That was just the way of the world, and fate must have had a great laugh out of that one, but she couldn’t begrudge Ange either for it. Even if Boupha didn’t like them, herself, it didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate how talented Angelica was about her hobbies, either. Honestly, even for a novice, she was remarkable, and even someone like Boupha could tell. No, She couldn’t hold any of that against Angelica.

It’s just that Angelica was just so astronomically different that it took her some time to adjust to the transition of living around a photographer.

It was an uncomfortable thing for Boupha to have so many pictures of herself around, if she was being honest. Pictures weren’t something that her or Dihn ever did, and it wasn’t something her blood relatives ever kept up with (save for a handful of newborn pictures rotting away in the attic), either. Mom wasn’t too big on pictures, so Boupha wasn’t actually that accustomed to it, but making some happy memories now, and having proof of that, was actually pretty cathartic. They weren’t for her. So it was easy enough to forget them if it was more convenient. It was a strange thing for her to get used to, but maybe she could finally call it a good one. She didn’t really care for them at the beginning, but slowly she’d gotten a little more into this whole picture craze thing Angelica had (albeit a rather reluctantly). 

It helped that Angelica was an actual angel in human’s clothing, and knew when she was pushing for too much. Near the start, Ange was always overly conscientious about asking beforehand, and listened whenever she declined. 

At the start, it was also hard to think about someone just kind of having her picture. What could you even do if it didn’t work out? Ask them for it? Politely request they get bent, and destroy them? Why would anyone want them at that point, anyways? It was just another one of those things that she never really asked about when she was younger, and defiantly didn’t now how to ask about, now. After looking over Angelica’s whole collection, she started to maybe get it. A little bit. For Angelica, they were tangible memories. They were windows back to joyous times, and peeks into the admiration she had for the people she captured, and the nature she observed. It was nice to be thought of for that kind of thing. It was a substantial kind of appreciation that made Boupha feel... _present_ in life, even if the concept as a whole was just... the way it was. 

After so many holidays (major, minor, and unheard of), and maybe a dozen new albums full of bedazzled craft paper and happy pictures, the images were, admittedly starting to grow on her a little. It wasn’t a completely comfortable switch over, but it was something she could claim she was more or less fine with, now, and it was growth she was actually proud of. Even if she didn’t want the end result, she enjoyed it her own ways, and looked back at all the memorized they had when they set things up for a snap, together. 

In a way, it was kind of like meeting new people. If you could fake a smile and muscle through enough of it, and then it could turn into something else, because you gave it half a chance. It was a comfort all its own to know that she could grow like that. She didn’t miss her old self. She was glad, and ready to leave her behind for someone better. And besides that-

“Oh my god! _Boupha_! You look so pretty! Andre, you have a knack for this! It doesn't even look l like some picture you took on a phone!” Angelica gushed. Her thumb happily flipped through a few of the pictures. She bounced a little on her feet, and Boupha really looked at her for a moment while she was in her element. The firelight caught her hair like silk thread, and lifted the back of it on the wind. Dusk was turning most everything a deep orange,and her eyes complemented the fire when amber like reflected off of them. She wasn’t as fully put together as when she first dropped in, but the wild strands of hair poking out near her eyes, and the comfortable air she carried herself with colored her with all the free spiritedness of a fae. Maybe a nymph. What were all the names of those forest spirits? Dryads? They really weren’t worth remembering if they couldn’t hold a candle to Angelica getting a few positives, and Boupha didn’t really care to.

_I guess it was a good one. Good. It’s only a holiday if Ange gets her pictures._

It made Angelica pretty happy.

Her eyes flickered in time with the firelight, and when they met each other's gaze Boupha couldn't help but admire the golden-orange licks of flame swilling around the deep brown of her pupils. She had eyes like witchlight, and thinking that was probably the only real warning she got. Angelica got up, and shimmied around the fireplace to get back over to Boupha’s folding chair. When she got close enough to the side of Boupha’s chair she held the phone up. Boupha held up her right hand to take it, but instead practically popped a lung when Angelica purposely missed her seat, and decided to sit _right_ the hell on her. Boupha Muy was almost killed on impact, and made a show of voicing her displeasure by throwing her arms up, and pretending to deflate.

“Ack! _Hey_!”

“Bobo! Look at it!”

“You’re _killing_ me, get off! ”

“I’m smaller than you! You’re not dying, just _look_. It turned out really good! Just look.”

The phone was held up to eye level, and she took it from her and to get a better look it. Blinking at it to get her eyes to focus, a heavy feeling suddenly weighs in her gut. It gave her enough pause, with enough weight behind it, to turn the mood on a dime. She swallowed dry air, and only tasted the woodsmoke from the fire and a touch of Angelica’s perfume. It didn’t sit with her well.

Boupha didn’t take a lot of pictures in her life. 

She could draw a metal image around the few she had taken, and the batch she had made with Angelica in the past, but none of them bothered her like this one did. She had a profile in her head on each of them. Like Dihn, she was a mostly private person, but unlike him, she had a couple stacks of pictures to her name, and she was half interested in accumulating more. Also unlike him, she had a wanderlust that often led her into new people. Unlike him, even still, she needed to step out to look at everything. For every thing that was the same about them there were more things that ended up being contrary. And that’s where the problems started and ended. Didn’t it?

The image on her phone was of Angelica and her, lighting sparklers off, and smiling near the fire. It was a new picture they had just taken it together. That was wrong, though. They just took it together, but it wasn’t _new_.

Not to say that it wasn’t expected. It belonged on her phone. She knew that it did, but it didn’t belong here. In this time. In this moment. In the skin of this version of her. The problem wasn’t that the picture was unexpected, but the fact that this was too expected. The more she traced the details, the more they registered as something she already knew to an unsettling, and intimate degree. Something was wrong with this whole situation. Like deja vu first cementing itself.

Boupha just stared at it uncomprehendingly. The hair on the back her arms prickled, and the other hand trembled. Despite the comfortable warmth in the air, she felt a terrible freeze slip into the tips of her nail beds. Her frown deepened. Angelica just waited, silently tracing the picture with her eyes, and leaning against her shoulder from the perch on her lap. It didn’t make any sense for it to just exist, but there it was. She recognized it with a cold clarity, but didn’t have any memories to fall back on besides the ones she was currently making. She _shouldn’t_ be able to look at it like this yet, but there was something more there, and it stared back at her. Her eyes picked it apart like there was some hidden secret to the image. Like there was a hex on it. They just took this picture. That was fact. 

But… It was _familiar_. It had a presence within it. 

She looked at it every day. She cried to it sometimes… But she hadn’t done any of that. Why would she do any of that? There wasn’t any reason to cry over pictures. It was useless. Just as useless as it was kind of masochistic to cart around something that you knew would make you unhappy. Besides, it was such a happy memory, so it would just be a waste to sour another one getting too bitter about it. She paused.

_A memory…?_

Angelica grinned at her from her side of the chair, half squished into the arm, but mostly camping on top of Boupha’s thighs like the cat that got the cream. 

_Then why does that… feel like a lie? It couldn’t be considered a memory if they’d just made it, right?. It was too early to call it that. This was just a picture, like all the rest of the holiday pictures. It wasn’t a memory. How could it be..?_

It wasn’t a memory, but the disconnect was too large to ignore. The distance was too real. It hurt to look at it for too long, and something compressed inside her head. It was something that didn’t belong in this place. Boupha blinked, and then rubbed her eyes. 

_Do I have a stye in my eye, or something? Why did it hurt to look at?_

Boupha blinked the stinging itch out of her eyes, and looked at the screen. Confused. Upset… Something else. Why was it _familiar_ …? Something about it was so recognizable. A piece of her heart spoke softly back to her mind.

_It’s mine._

The grief was sudden, overwhelming, and rolled over her like fog. It was a silent thing—without any tangibility—but passed through her like an evil spirit. Despair was in her breath, and desperation was in her lungs. Tears bubbled in Boupha’s eyes and smudged the world around them. Things discolored until the gray roots pulling at her vision got too vicious to keep them open, and they stung themselves closed. A migraine formed behind her eyes, and tears flew off her cheeks in bewildered silence. The more that air that swirled at the top of her chest the that more confusion took root. 

After a few dry swallows, her breath hitched. She couldn’t get any substantial air out of rough drags between her teeth. The whole time, she could only sit at the back of her own mind, stunned, and experiencing what physically felt like a panic attack. Rational thought, and superfluid feelings mixed like like mismatched paints, and things only got murkier the less she could tell the two different sentiments apart. Boupha looked at the picture, squinting through burning eyes. It was harder to look at when she couldn’t stop her hand from doddering the image around.

_It's mine?_

The tears only made things drain blurrier. Boupha wiped the back of her hand against her face, and groaned unhappily. Her chest contracted painfully on hiccups and shudders. She wasn’t outright sobbing, even if the force to do so was there. Pain cut into her like a knife had been guided into her chest. It _hurt_. It _really_ hurt, and she couldn’t tell why it hurt, or what had even happened. It just hurt like it was a festering wound that someone had ripped open. 

Boupha squeezed her eyes closed in hard blinks in an effort to get them to stop, but the effort was ineffectual when she couldn’t even understand _why_ it was happening to start with. The migraine spiking behind her forehead doubled up in intensity, and she didn’t let up until most of the tear-flow had stopped. She held her breath until her ears throbbed, and colors bloomed behind her eyelids. When she finally took a firm gasp in, the technicolor patterns fell apart when she opened up her eyes.

Boupha felt like she was making a public spectacle of herself, but much to her own shame, she couldn’t just ignore it, either. She’d cried enough to know not to do it around the company, and now her self control was slipping for some reason. She knew what to do and how to act if she was ever having a day she couldn’t get away from Dihn’s face. She knew how to keep people out, and at a distance, and unawares, but this was so wildly out of character for her, that even she was thinking she might have finally gone crazy. It was just a picture! Why were things evolving into something she couldn’t control so quickly? It wasn’t even one of his pictures!

_Am I having some kind of mental break?! What’s- Why is this happening?!_

When Boupha tried to scrub her eyes and whimper out a strained, watery apology, she realized with a jolt, that they were alone. She was there, and so was Angelica, but Andre was gone. He hadn’t gotten up. He hadn’t moved to a tent. He wasn’t walking down the gravel so they could have space. He was just there, and then he wasn’t. Andre just wasn’t there. He'd simply winked right out of existence. Boupha looked around, lost. Fretful, and confused.

Other things had moved, too.

The tents were gone. The hotdog rack, and the coolers were gone. The car park was gone, and so were the many trail signs, the turn offs, and the entrance they’d come in. The forest was behind them, now. Just the lake was just in front of them near the fire. Nothing in the forest was moving. Not a branch, or an animal in the tree tops, or a fish in the lake jumped, even the insects seemed to be holding their breath. The only noise in the open air was the fire, and Boupha’s whisking gasps. Wide eyed with shock, she didn’t speak for a minute. The fire popped, and the wood crumbled into hot coals, sending orange sparks into the air. Angelica stared into her eyes, expression masked by an even consideration. Boupha’s eyes widened further and she shifted in her seat when she realized just how close she and Angelica actually were. 

Everyone who had gone down to the lake was nowhere to be seen, or heard from. There were no sparklers, or voices, or chatter to alight the air, and now there didn’t seem to be a living presence besides their own in the dark of the wood. Near the edge of the lake, there wasn’t even a shoe print in the sand to indicate that anyone had gotten this far in weeks. The last of the sun drain away, and darkness dropped over the lakeside like a shroud.

It didn’t make sense.

_Wher- where is…the...? Where is everyone? Where’s Andre... and Makenzie…?_

But, there was no one else.

It was just her, and Angelica, and the fire. 

A sudden swell of panic prickled at a buried nerve, and Boupha’s eyes flitted over the scenery. The air between them was a lot more different than what she was used to. It was something that went deeper than just what her eyes alone were picking up on. Her body tensed with an untapped energy that couldn’t release itself. There was something here with her. Something so wrong, that the impulse to run would have carried her away if Angelica wasn’t holding her in place with her body weight. The crawling in her skin made her strain up, anyways.

The fire gave off light like a backdrop, but did little to light up the beach, or bring any real clarity to what was happening. Once the flame's shimmer glowed too far away from the center stones that restrained it the darkness surrounding them swallowed it. Instead of long shadows by the firelight that lit the silhouette of weeds and shore growth, there was just more darkness, like they were in a locked room she couldn’t see the edges of. If that were the case, it might explain how cold things felt. The darkness outside the ring of their fire was a scalding cold. It was July, with a forecast of increasingly miserable heat conditions, and now she couldn’t feel the back of her arms since she was stuck in her chair in shorts, and a tank top. It may as well have been December in Alaska. Her teeth chattered, but moving closer to the safety of the fire seemed like an ill gotten cause, too. The fire made her skin itch, Sweltering hot to the skin, and hypothermic at her back. It was like being stuck between the sun and the emptiness of space, and left her squirming with discomfort that she couldn’t remedy. The temperate warmth of the forest was gone. Despite how frigid the air felt, she could still hear gentle waves licking at rocks near the shoreside, a new noise that filtered into her growing awareness. 

A lock of crimped, blonde hair dangled in front of Angelica’s eyes, partially obscuring the consuming gaze that she had locked upon her. That sucked her in. Somewhere in the back of her head, Boupha got the crazy idea that if she let go of her she would die. Leaving her at a complete loss for what to what to do. She got the same thrill of fear that chased her in her nightmares, and the same feeling that those grappling hands on her skin gave her. Holding someone close to her seemed dangerous, but pinpointing why was its own set of mental gymnastics.

Angelica never left. Unlike Andre, she remained seated, half spread across Boupha’s thighs with a smile on her mouth and a hungry look in her eyes. But this person sitting in her lap lacked... _something_ that was hard to place. Something just wasn’t there that made Boupha think she was a human being. Something similar, but not the same. It was like looking into the eyes of a changeling. A predator of some kind trying to trick her eyes by taking a familiar shape.

She looked like Angelica. She had the same crimped hair, dapple cheeks, and brown eyes, but when they looked at her all she saw was… Witchlight.

Boupha swallowed, throat still dry, and breath still uneven.

“...Angelica, what’s happening?” Boupha asked after a moment. Angelica hummed at her, either opting to lean on something noncommittal or just genuinely not understanding that things had changed so drastically. Her eyes drifted around without concern, and Boupha couldn’t help but feel unnerved by it. She’d dropped into the deep end of another universe. _That had to be it, right? Or another night terror…? But that doesn’t make sense, either. I never went to bed! I never fell asleep, I just…_ Angelica’s head turned, but nothing about it fit her.

“You seem lost, Boo-Boo.” Saying softly, she stares down at her seemingly without the need to blink; now Boupha wanted to squirm for a different reason. Angelica’s eyes were heavy with something, but even a foot or two away, it seemed aimed somewhere through her instead of directly at her. A hand came up to her shoulder and she twitched in place, jerkily. The eyes didn’t leave her, and Boupha just stared up when she was given a moment to settle. A tense frown aimed at the person who was sat on her lap. She didn’t move an inch. The picture was still open on her phone. The combination of the whitish blue-light spilling across Angelica’s face, and the red light of the fire lining the outside of her frame made it hard to tell if she was breathing, or if it was just a trick of the flickering light that made her she look like she wasn’t. Angelica leaned down and forward, successfully caging Boupha in without much effort. Boupha flinched again as she leaned back.

“I… Look, I-I don’t know what-”

“Oh, yes. Yes, you _do_. You always really seem to know what I really mean, but there’s a certain threshold for how much you’re willing to hear from me, ” The girl drawled a little wistfully. Boupha gave her a curious glare, and when she realized that Boupha didn’t seem to understand her, she took that as permission to continue. A hand slithered on lacquer nail tips up her throat, until it traveled up far enough to cup her jaw. Pleasant tingles jittered across her spine, and Boupha half hated herself for cowing under her palm. As much as this person looked like Angelica, she didn’t act like her even a little. 

This thing wearing Angelica’ skin, masquerading as her, wanted to consume her. It wanted to eat her alive and she could feel that in her bones, but it was too late now. She hadn’t seen it until now, and was too trapped to run from the abysmal hunger lacing the dark pits of her eyes. The girl was much more terrifying than the grisly face of the pink man. Unlike him, she smiled with a dry sort of intelligence. A rationality that existed to extract things. And unlike the pink man, she was given no room to run away this time. She smiled down at her a little.

“Are you an honest person, Boupha Muy…?” The question didn’t seem related to what she’d just said, but something about it rubbed Boupha the wrong way. Her grip on the phone tightened. The blue light from the screen wobbled in her grasp, but Angelica was so still she looked like she was made of wax instead of a real being. A talking statue. Boupha’s face screwed up, but she coughed her throat clear, before speaking.

“...Sure. Haha. We all try to be, don’t we…? Why are you asking me out of nowhere, Ange?” Boupha asked a little uncomfortably. The person that wasn’t exactly Angelica seemed to consider that answer like she’d been given a small riddle, and mulled it over to herself a moment. 

“...We all try to be,” She mumbled rhetorically, “ _We all try to be_ …”

Boupha’s eyes flickered around the campsite. There had to be a way out of this. This wasn’t Angelica , but the girl didn’t seem to notice she had realized that yet, so maybe she could take advantage of that. Was there anything around she could grab? Was there anything she could use? Chills coiled around her like snakes were sliding across bare skin. Her stomach rolled. The air was so cold that her breath puffed out of her in vaporous huffs. She wanted to turn around and warm her back by the fire singeing her feet and the sides of her face, but she couldn't move. She couldn’t even really rotate her neck without catching the girls’s attention. Angelica’s eyes searched skywards for an answer, but returned back to Boupha in a roll that was too quick to look human.

“Do you try to be?” The girl parried. Boupha looked up at her, shoulders curling inwards even when the grip underneath her chin remained. Boupha’s frown deepened. The girl leaned forward, enunciating each word slowly with no less smile to her voice. “Do. You. Try. To. Be?”

“...Yeah… I’m...not, like- a bad person?” She mumbled lamely. Those fingers were an ever present sensation against her face as the girl frowned, unsatifised. Somehow her frowning was better than that smile. 

“No, no, no! That’s not an _answer_. I’m not asking if you’re good. I want to know if you think you’re honest, Boupha. Do you consider yourself, _honest_ or do you _not_? There’s only two ways to really answer this, and only _one_ reality to the situation. So, I want you to answer me.”

Boupha hesitated, her mouth twitching. This would be a lot easier if she wasn’t distracted over how to get out of this situation. Angelica seemed to notice, and hummed a little. The tone was considering, with maybe just a touch of pity, but not in a way the real Angelica ever spoke. The inflections were wrong. The movements, even small ones, were even more dissimilar. It was getting harder to consider them the same person, but the similarities that were there made it impossible to fully accept one way or another. Her eyes still looked through her like black puddles that kept light at an arm’s length, and Boupha quivered under them like they’d tear away to nothing but pitch sclera if she didn’t keep watching her. Like that mask was liable to slip. With ‘Angelica’ so close to her own face, Boupha could smell the smoke, and lake water ghosting across her skin. That could have been enough proof to her that this was Angelica (in a way) and that this was the person who had been her traveling companion for a while now, but (perhaps more damning) there was the slip of some muted note of shampoo underneath it. That fancy brand that always danced around her shoulders when she flipped her hair. One of many things that Boupha just sort of... took notice about, after living together with her for so long. It was the small, buried things that made her hesitate. Even as this person looked down the bridge of her nose at her, held her in place, and asked such vague, unnerving things about herself. The small notes of what was once Angelica coaxed answers from her, lure and line. After a moment, Boupha tried to force her voice to sound less uncertain, and answer. But the truth dropped out of her mouth like cold water, instead.

“...I’m realistic.” That got her a raised eyebrow; the gesture didn’t have the natural visage that Andre had had. There was something distinctly artificial about the way that her brow curved, cartoonishly. There wasn’t any surprise on her face, either. Just some evaluative glaze over the cover of her dark eyes. When Boupha looked at her their center, the only thing she saw was her own discomfort mirrored back at her. There she stayed, and there they waited. It wasn’t enough of an answer. Boupha continued on, if only to fill the widening silence.

“...I’m… _look_ , I used to be all over the place. I used to be able to just go out there, and talk to anyone, or try just about anything- and that was my _whole_ thing for so long. I made a name for myself being the hyperactive party girl that could be anyone’s friend. I wanted to try everything at some point, and go everywhere, and meet everyone, but I didn’t even have an identity. I just threw together all the pieces of a personality that I thought people would like, and collected people into a crowd so I could get that by proxy. I didn’t have to second guess anything, I just shot for it. And most of the time I thought I got a hit, so it was easy enough to just... brush the bad shit I was dealing with off, and not deal with it…” Boupha babbled, “But that's not how things actually work. You should question people’s motives. You have to be aware of that, and you shouldn’t just act like someone you think they will like! 

"People aren’t always one hundred percent on your side, even if you are. You can’t just pretend people will automatically be into your big posse of ride-or-die besties, _or_ expect them to back you up when all the fun is over, if you haven’t put the work in... especially, when the only thing you ever shared was a fucking jello shot. I thought I could, because I thought I knew better, and trusted them to do that. But I was wrong. You can convince yourself you know every aspect of your own personality just as easily as you can say you know someone like the back of your hand, but you can’t say that reliably. You can’t, and I don’t anymore. It’s just like you can’t expect everything to stay permanent, or safe. Time is the greatest force of change in the universe, and no matter how you look at it, this place is going to turn you on your head! You can be honest with yourself as much as you want to be, and still be wrong, so yes! I’m fucking realistic about things now, and I _try_ to be. I _try_.” 

By the time Boupha finished she was already red in the face, head turned away and trembling for a whole different reason. The girl seemed to consider that too, in her own fashion, but the frown on her face tugged a dimple towards what looked like frustration. It felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, but also like the air had adopted it, instead. ‘Angelica’ leaned back a hair. It didn't make it any easier to breathe, particularly because Angelica seemed so nonplussed about how increasingly distraught Boupha was getting, but she seemed to draw the admission in to chew on it. 

Boupha was automatically starting to feel a little sick with herself. Okay, so she hadn’t meant to get that far. Or to get that detailed. These were things she thought about, but never said to anyone, but herself. Harsh realities. Silent vials of venom. Bottled up frustrations. Maybe it was the impromptu fit she’d had, but she was already geared up to get upset, and once she was talking it just didn’t stop. This was something Angelica was never supposed to hear, and Boupha never thought she’d just tell her something like that, either, but maybe that’s why it happened at all. It was easier to talk to this thing that looked like her, because it wasn’t her. 

It _couldn’t_ be. 

...And yet, there was just enough of the real Angelica in her face to coax out the worst in her. The girl didn’t seem impressed with that, regardless. 

“You don’t like having to lean one way or another, do you...” The girl said flatly. 

After half a second that seemed to register something she didn’t voice out loud, and she started laughing behind one of her hands. It was such a familiar gesture on her that it hit Boupha like a bucket of water, and she startled. After a moment, she calmed down, and finally repeated the thought, “Oh- Oh, I’m sorry, it’s irritating, though. You can’t answer a yes or no question without having to squash some long winded justification into everything that happens to you. You know?” She didn’t wait for Boupha to catch up to what she said, and really, just went along with whatever she was trying to coerce her into understanding. 

“Most people don’t carry that around with them constantly. Everyone has their own problems, after all. Most of the time they pretend they’re not happening, though... Or they deal with them, and leave things behind. Because that’s how you move forward. You drop the dead weight, and everyone collectively ignores it. That’s how you keep the peace in any society, you chew on the fact that life is fair to everybody by being fair to absolutely no one. You don’t seem to get that, though. 

"Well, guess that’s only half true. It’s not like you don’t keep trying to do the same thing, but rather than actually look at what needs you currently do have you like to point back at all the wreckage you had to walk through, and tug at the sleeves of anyone who will listen to you about it. But then turn around so you never touch the topic ever again. Does that not come off a little strange, or hypocritical to you? The always begging for people to listen to you while you shrink away from practically everyone in your life, and then crying about it? It’s not like you burned alive, right…? Hahaha, everybody already comes to your aid whenever you call them.” Not-quite-Angelica smiled.

Anger hit half a second after. Just a sudden as the crying had come, just as invisible, and just as intense. It was so blistering that the ice numbing her spine, and backs of her shoulders boiled hot enough to rival the molten crawl of heat in her shins, and knees in a matter of seconds.

“Fuck you! You don’t get to look me in the eye and say that, you- You-”

“Why are you mad?”

“ _Why am I mad_?! You-”

“...It doesn’t make sense to get this mad, you know. You walk around every day of your life tugging these things behind you like there's something to save, but you’re not actually saving anything. You’re just tiring yourself out. Has this whole task become so much about who you are you just can’t imagine your life as anything else? With anyone else? What’s the justification? It didn’t fit your expectations? Someone dying didn’t make you feel _comfortable_? It’s one thing to be in mourning, it’s another thing to let despair swallow your spirit whole. The past doesn’t become relevant because it matters every second of every day. It’s only relevant, because you can’t find it in yourself to look at the grip you have on some dead guy, and let go. You just insist, and _insist_ , on weighing yourself down, and giving the dead more precedent in your life than the living. And truth be told, that’s no one’s fault, but your own.” 

The words cut like she had been sharpening every one of them for years, just so she could use then now. And from the looks of it, she was actually having a ball just spinning them on the tip of her tongue, before their polished ends really sunk in. It was a smug kind of taunt that was so far away from what Angelica actually was, that Boupha found enough strength in her arms to at least put an foot’s distance between them. What she _really_ wanted to do was shove her off—screaming instincts be damned—but even this much adrenaline fueled fury couldn’t keep the supernatural weight off of her. It was so strange to barely feel Angelica on her lap, but to have her arms shake at the joint just trying to shove her leering face away. The mental and physical strain was making her quiver. Tears were clouding her eyes again and the heat scorched whatever it could touch. The cold stung whatever it didn’t.

No matter what she did, she couldn’t escape any of it or even squirm away. She was just being forced to endure the all encompassing discomfort trying to swallow her. A few yelps, and grunts of exertion escaped her when her arms started buckling.

“Get _off_ of me! Just stop it! ”

“Stop, _what?_ ”

“Just leave me _alone_!” 

“Why? So you can hide? You sure don’t seem to know how to mend things unless someone holds you in one place, and yells some sense into you. And besides-”

Boupha found her arms losing the traction they’d had, and glared up at the thing using Angelica’s face to whisper terrible things sweetly down at her. The soft brown sparkle that usually danced in Angelica’s eyes was washed out by darkness and scrabbled blue light, like there was static behind the hollow chasms in her head. As much as this thing seemed to like tormenting her, it seemed to like getting in her face more. Fake nails left red lines on her wrist. Stinging trails pierced into the skin of her jaw when her left hand slowly realigned with the top of her chin. Boupha’s arms waived like she was trying to hold the current of a river back, the pressure crushing against her, and dragging her down with it. The air around them changed with it, making her ears blister and pop as the air continued to condense. Could it really be possible she fell ass backwards into another dimension? The air had never felt this hard to breathe, and it didn’t seem to have the same composition as the atmosphere of the world she’d left behind. Especially out in the woods. It was almost like the gloom was getting thicker. Boupha couldn’t catch her breath, and rapidly lost ground trying to push the other girl’s face away from hers. Angelica continued to look down at her with little more than a quiet sigh, pushing a piece of hair back into place.

“Don’t you owe it to me the most, Bobo? To be honest?”

Boupha shut her eyes, giving another hard shove that barely moved the weight off of her shoulders. The force behind it just doubled down against her. A high whimper skirted out from between her clenched teeth, but Boupha refused to reopen her eyes or give this thing anything to work with. If the girl wanted to make her uncomfortable, then it could deal with Boupha not making it easy on her or playing along. Her breath felt cold, and carried no heat even at the edge of its wake. But when it brushed past her, the heavy smell of something aromatic lingered in the air between them.

It was a sharp, crisp smell like cologne, but something that seemed too botanical to be manufactured. It had been such a subtle smell, lost beneath the earthiness of the wood smoke, and the green bloom of lake water. Boupha thought it might have been perfume. One of those flowery brands that always had a cute name, and collected dust on Angelica’s shelf because she bought it for the bottle. She hadn’t noticed how strong it had gotten until she was nearly eye to eye with the girl in her lap. The very same person watched her quietly, waiting for Boupha to open them on her own before getting sick of the wait, and snorting at her with a bit of soft disgust. 

“You’re pathetic.”

Another tangible pause. 

The-girl-who-wasn’t-Angelica, stared Boupha down a minute longer before the sound of a sliver of cloth sliding upwards caught her attention. She looked up at whatever had momentarily snagged her attention with a bothered look stuck to her face. The coals in the fire popped, and when Angelica turned slightly to get a better look at them, the floral waft of that ghosting breath left with her. Another set of pops and snaps crackled after the coals turned over, and more orange sparks plumed skywards in a puff. The girl moaned in a quiet understanding, and the grip she had on Boupha relaxed a degree.

“Ahh... So sorry, Dihn. I forgot you were there. Tell me... did Boo-Boo _always_ act like this, or did you actually get the benefit of having her when she was only somewhat socially inept?”

Boupha had no idea what she could be talking about, but just hearing her bring up Dihn’s name at all so casually had Boupha going practically bug eyed. Her eyes snapped open, but she didn’t immediately see who Angelica was talking to. There were no other people around. No new figures had suddenly appeared to confront them. No new faces in their circle of two. It was just the cold forest, and the sound of splashing water at her back. Angelica was half turned around, glaring a bit apathetically and just as unnaturally, stock-still as she was when she was she was crowding Boupha in. And then her eyes fell on the fire. 

She didn’t see him at first. The bonfire was so large that they could have put another tent over it, and the reddening coals were so painfully hot that for the most part, Boupha had really been trying to keep her face away from it. Even with Angelica blocking a majority of the oncoming heat, the flashes that hit her when she moved nearly dried out her eyes, and made them double down on watering up like the brimstone was some acidic sea spray that danced off the winds. It was a dirty sort of smoke, with none of the rich smell of pine needles, or oak. The fire hadn’t been nearly this hot when they were lighting sparklers, but then again, nothing had been like this maybe half an hour ago. It was a scorch more like chemical tar. Just being close to it sickened her, and soaked into her skin like a sulfurous musk. It blended terribly with the floral smell still stuck on the tips of Angelica’s nails. Like drinking Shirley temple in a sewer. Angelica, half bent at the waist and leaning backwards, spoke into the red coals. Boupha’s eyes lowered, following the curve of her body, and tailing her line of sight like an arrow. She didn’t see anyone there.

And then she did. 

Like some twisted picture puzzle, she saw him. First an eye, a blue pupil, almost gray, soaked in the red of the flame. Then the rest of his body, almost cradled beneath wood and crumbling timber. Just as red, crackling apart, and caged in under smoldering ash and kindling. His body burned like he was simply another large log they had bought off the side of the road from vendors. Hollowed indentations carved out the middle of abdomen, and a scarlet fire glow flitted between the cracks in his arms, churning out an acrid heat that smelled like death itself. It was a nauseatingly molded smell. Wet rot, rancid meat, and burning earth.

Boupha could only look at him using her freed hand as a shield. Breathing the choking smog too quickly, too suddenly. Wheezing on the inhales, choking on the exhales. How he got there was a mystery. How she hadn’t seen him was an even more terrible one. How he scowled up at them was impossible. But there he was. Eaten by flame, like his extremities were the burnt withers of matches, and the crooked ends of twisted branches.

...And he just _stared_ with a single eye in a socket visible under the muck, and the dust. Only that one, lone eye was free of the gray sands, and ash of the beach.

His wrath was scorching, but the ground swallowed him up to the bridge of his nose, and robbed him of most of his face. If he wanted to voice something, he wasn’t able to. What body wasn’t fueling the fire was buried somewhere in the ground, but Boupha could only really speculate about it when breathing was suddenly way too challenging to do without actively thinking about it. 

His eyes certainly said something. Angelica laughed back at him, newly transfixed by their new party, and happy to leave Boupha behind, horror struck, to gloat at him. She hadn’t seen him in so long. Not since that night she left him at the house. The funeral had been closed casket. His mom screamed her down, and cast her away from everything else. She didn’t have pictures. They never took pictures, really. It was all about the moment for them. Did they really tempt fate enough by casting pictures away as a second thought? That wretched house that swallowed him whole, and after the world consumed him, it came for her next.

He looked like a wax statue, too. He was just as still, but he burned like wood. Identical to her last memory of him, in every way possible. Save those hateful eyes. A dark tuft of black hair smoked near the top of his cheek. What was left of the other eye was glossed over with a milky film. Just looking at him made her blood ice. Noxious fumes from the fire blistered her eyes when the wind kicked up, she whimpered in pain.

Seemingly content with Dihn’s apparent silence, or otherwise quieted rage, Angelica turned her attention back on her, and slunk back up her lap in a much better mood. It grated against every nerve in her sympathetic system. She wanted to run. She wanted to get away, and stay away. She swore at herself for even letting a shadow of a doubt cloud her judgement. This girl had Angelica’s _face_ , her _clothing_ , her _nails_ , occasionally, even a few of her _mannerisms_ , but those eyes just screamed at her that they were anyone else. Angelica didn’t act like _this_. She didn’t sneer cold, haunting things, or trap her in one place. She didn’t get in her space for the express purpose of invading it. She wasn't so angry or aggressive. She was the biggest pillar of support she had. She never looked for easy ways to verbally tear her apart, and she didn’t have eyes like _that_. 

Angelica was... warm, kind, patient, and always asking around about whether or not she was okay. She was Boupha’s best friend, and just one of those once in a lifetime people that she just automatically clicked with. The outright sadistic sneer on this person’s face just wasn’t an expression meant for Angelica, and it sickened Boupha to no end.

“I guess it doesn’t matter now, right, Dihn? ” Angelica almost cackled. Boupha sank into her seat the closer she got. It would have been easier to yell she wanted to get away from this. The rapid staccato in her panicked breathing kept her from vocalizing that, and she had an increasingly hard time keeping her sight on both of them at once. She wanted to be horrified for Dihn, who couldn't speak, but it was hard to maintain when the thing in her lap was making a slow advance on her. Then again, it was a hard argument when you were having a panic attack at the same time as what felt like a stroke. They were practically nose to nose by the time Boupha found enough decisiveness to push at her again. 

_Back up! Back up, back up, back up! What’s wrong with this chick, Angelica wouldn’t even think about acting like this, why is she getting so close to me?! Especially, when she seems to hate me! Why is she-_

Angelica tilted her head inquisitively, another aggressive leer dancing in her eyes. 

“Oh? Come on Boupha, don’t look so upset. This is what you wanted to begin with, right? Be thankful! Make merry, and just enjoy _this_. Don’t you think life would be so much sweeter if you just got a little bit more honest with yourself and threw caution to the wind a little more? Doesn't it hurt you to have to constantly be keep people at a distance? You can lie to yourself, but you sure can’t lie to me. Not forever, at least. I think you miss being so beautifully spontaneous. I think that’s something that you can’t forgive yourself for losing, either,” Angelica idled. She sounded so relaxed, and almost adoring when she cupped the side of one of Boupha’s cheeks. Her hands were heatless things that did nothing to comfort her, and actually seemed to do the opposite by siphoning any warmth out of whatever they touched. A part of Boupha wondered if that’s why she hadn’t felt so much of the sweltering heat from the fire up until now. 

By contrast, Boupa’s voice came out a gritty and unsure swallow. “...I’m not- _that_ person, anymore…”

“Hmm. _No_. You really aren’t. You _were_ , though, and you can’t forget how happy that made you. Not having to deal with the constant second guessing. Not being afraid to spit people in the eye if they didn’t line up with you. Not having to question what your place was, standing side by side with someone. I don’t think you want to live as another person. Especially not some skittish nobody who walks on eggshells for people she barely even knows. Pretend all you like that you’re grown, but I think the root of the problem is that you hate what you bloomed into every time you see yourself.”

Angelica’s other hand fixed a loose strand of hair, and Boupha couldn’t help but think of claws when the acrylic touched her skin. Fine edges slid painlessly across her forehead like carefully maneuvering knives. Boupha’s eyes, wide as they were, got a little more sightless under the attention. It would be so easy to just close her eyes, again, and pretend that this person was enough like her Angel to get her own mind out of this scenario, but she felt pinned down under the fork of some white hot vulnerability she couldn’t wedge herself out from under. 

They weren’t lying to her. She _did_ miss that. She missed the freedom of impulsiveness. The days that Dihn and her ran through the thick of the woods chasing some curio, or imaginary villains that they were both supposed to subdue. They weren’t special children by any means, but with as many people as they used to know, she liked to think that maybe—just plausibly—she had simply been overlooked. That maybe her superpower was something as humble as ‘unity’ or ‘togetherness’. She missed the wealth of an adventure, and the fruits of their pursuit. She missed Dihn, terribly, and every day she woke up to a missing fractal of her soul, she’d cry his name with just as much sorrow as the first day she’d gone home to a place without him. It wasn’t a lie to say that she felt like she’d traded her soul for a concert, and a bottle, most day. She couldn’t say anything to her own defense.

“Every day you have to wake up to yourself, and be the only one to reassure yourself. Honestly, if it weren’t for me, I don't know how much you would have stuck it out for your own sake. You really don’t want to treat yourself any better, honestly. You don’t seem to deserve forgiveness for it, either, but then again who’s to say you could have done anything if you had theoretically been there.” Boupha stared forwards, unseeing. Silent. Swallowing half digested words the moment they came to her. Tears came hand in hand with resignation. There were so many, that a few that slid into the hand on Boupha’s jaw, iced. Angelica tilted her face back towards her. “...I guess that’s pretty accurate.”

The hand rested on her cheek, slid down. Gliding on the backs of nails that smelled too strong, and leeching heat from whatever they touched. Angelica seemed to be appraising something mindlessly, again. 

"That’s why you want to keep her all to yourself, then, hmmm…? Just look at what you did, making all those people disappear like that. Haha, maybe that’s just what happens when you push so many people away, though. Eventually they just don’t come back!”

The girl in her lap slid forwards, and leaned her face on the top of Boupha’s hairline like some mocking, possessive imitation of a hug. Like every other gesture, it only served to make Boupha feel increasingly uneasy. The oppressive weight settled over her again, but without the strength to push it off again, Boupha just sobbed. She felt claustrophobic, and caged in by arms, and lacquer fangs that dripped poison. Stabbing caresses that were just left to heal in the open air, and she was expected to ignore. 

All of the mockery was unwelcome. It felt drilling to hear the thoughts she locked in shards of her poorly kept heart, read aloud so easily. It was a kind of intimacy, without comfort of trust. She couldn’t find her voice when it came down to it. As much as she hated feeling so exposed, the mounting need for comfort kept poking it’s nose at her subconscious. Maybe she really was tired, but even mock comfort seemed worth pursuing when it got pushed under her nose enough.

“And anyways, you really don’t want that to start. You’ve lost your confidence in a crowd. You can’t face them, now. Not after what they did to you when your last ‘life line' got cut. You can’t trust them if you’re by yourself! That’s why I’m so important. You always need to be in a relationship, or else all the other ones you have in your life just fall apart.You can’t do anything by yourself, because you’re like this little parasitic bug that has to sit on people’s shoulders, so they can take some of the burden off of yours.That weight can’t just be yours to bear. It will crush you. In fact, I think it’s already crushing you. How alone have you been? Are you starved for this kind of contact already? Do you still have people who will call on you, and call on you and call on you. Only to get _nothing_ back?”

The relaxed tone turned just as aggressive as the fingers carding through her hair suddenly twisted and tangled themselves in it. The longer it carried on, the more that tears pinched at the corners of her eyes. The fistful of hair dragged at the nerves right up top of her skull. She could tell there were a few strands that had already dislodged. Angelica practically spat at her. Boupha didn’t want to look at her face. She _really_ didn’t want to look at her face. 

“Because that’s all you can really do. Take. _Take take take take,_ and then cry about how everyone isn’t on your team. Cry about all the sad little things that happened in your sad little life, and just sit there, and stagnate. Sit there, and judge everyone else for not automatically coming to your rescue, and watch the world go by without you because you can’t bring yourself to get up without someone tugging you along like some toy on a string. Can you even remember what problems Dihn had? Did you even bother to learn what kind of illnesses he had, or did that blotch your perfect little high school sweetheart model? And what about Angelica? What about this perfect girl you’ve latched your claws into? Are you _really_ going to poison her happy life, because you’re that selfish?! You think you even deserve to be her friend?! _Are you kidding me_?! You’re not just a parasite, you’re a _predator_. _It's no wonder she fucking hates you!_ ”

All pretense of kindness dropped away, and Angelica hissed curses in her ear, standing up and yanking Boupha with her. The grip on her hair turned agonizing, tears pooled and boiled in Boupha’s eyes. Hands fought for the clutch at the top of her head, and despite the cold taking most of the feeling out of them, Boupha desperately tried to make a grab for her hair back. She was so distracted by Angelica’s words, that she didn’t notice how different she looked, or how much she had changed. She couldn’t focus on the brown, curling hair, or the hands that lacked delicate lengtheners, and pastels. She didn’t notice how much taller, or how much darker her complexion had become. It didn’t matter if she looked, she only felt the wrath aimed at her. The _hatred_. The heat billowed full force into her eyes, and it was all she could do to try and weakly fight for her own hair back. It was all she could do to blindly claw, and scream as the girl switched from straddling their canvas chair to yanking her purposely towards the heat she no longer blotted out. So blinded by pain, she didn't even realize the girl's facade had completely slipped.

“ _That’s not true_!” Boupha wailed, flimsily trying to pry the claws out with no success, “She’s my friend! I d-don’t- I’m not even- she’s my f-friend! My _best_ friend! I wouldn’t ever do that to her! I’m not-”

“Shut up! Just _listening_ to you try and make excuses makes me sick.” The hand in her gripped harder, and too exhausted to keep fighting, Boupha’s knees gave out from under her. One of her ankles rolled, and getting up again became a harder task to manage in less than thirty seconds. The yelling was much easier to do.

“I’m not gay, I _loved_ Dihn! I _still_ love Dihn, even if he’s gone! Even if I can’t have him! I wouldn't betray him, either! I’ll never leave him behind- I _can’t_! I can’t do that to him a second time! S-she only play-flirts back with me, because it's a joke to her! It’s just a joke, and I’m taking things too far! It’s not _her_ fault! I’m- l-lonely. I need someone, but- and I’m not going to throw a wedge in my friendship with Angelica because of my own stupid, _fucking_ problems, and hang ups. Maybe I need someone, but how could I just- I- She doesn’t deserve that... She’s so kind and thoughtful, and I’m just- _just_ … Always taking advantage of that. _Oh god_... I just- but I wouldn’t- I just-”

“You what? Tou just forgot to keep pretending? You’re your own _joke_ ,” she sneered incredulously, “Do you _really_ think that you’re getting sympathy for that? People are decent to each other when they like each other, you’re not special. That’s the _bare fucking minimum._ You can’t just snap your fingers and turn a living girl into a dead boy. Do you think you can just have her at your side to fill a space you lost? Since you want to go back to that life, again? Dihn is _dead_. You can’t go back. Whoever you used to be died with him, and now all that’s left is just a sad little woman trying to make sense of all the broken pieces by throwing up tatters and calling that a home. It’s utterly delusional... _This_ is your reality, so _look_ at it for _once_ , and be honest with yourself! ”

Boupha’s knees dragged through sand, and another yelp screeched out of her when the girl yanked her forwards. Boupha outright flinched when the full brunt of the flame hit her face. Hands abandoned their other ventures to shield her from the blazing wind that soared off the top of the fire, but it didn’t do much to remedy the burns that were already braised across her skin. Strange colors seeped into the corners of her vision. It could have been the tears—the acidic scorch setting into the meat of her eyes—but shapes around them seemed to move and roll in the dark, and every now and then she would see something. A claw. A set of eyes. Vines. 

Eyes and faces twisted into reality. Indistinct enough for her to notice, but not enough to get a full grasp of what was poking at the borders of her sight. Everything smelled septic and sweet. Its suffocating after burn was a putrid melt. That sharp, rosy smell doubled up behind the corrosive reek of the flames like she’d downed a bottle of perfume. It seeped into everything, and singed the back of her palette like it was trying to brand its way into her system. It bled through her like the phantasmagoria of color crawling across her eyes. Writhing worms squirming over her vision, as hard glares shot out at her from the darkness. Rough sand bit into her knees and her ankle throbbed. All the while the girl just held her there. Forcing her head over the fire just close enough to hurt, but not nearly enough to roast, and listening to the wet, sucking gags that heaved out of her. 

The more Boupha struggled the harder it got to breathe, and the tighter the fist in her hair seemed to grow. That unearthly strength that had managed to keep her pinned her once, held her just as fast now. But didn’t seem to have drop of empathy anymore. 

Pleas and promises rattled out of her the longer she twisted, and shouted over the fire, but that only seemed to add to the mounting irritation of her tormentor. She promised to bury all of these feelings that she hadn’t meant to grow. She promised to spend the rest of her life alone. She promised to never bother anyone with her problems ever again, and she pleaded with ‘Angelica’ for forgiveness, but it never really seemed to be heard. There was just fire. There was the occasional snap of wood, and the lake gently swishing to its own canter on the wind. In the darkness, there were quiet sounds she could almost hear. Someone else muttering as she cried.

It was a deeper voice. A gentle voice discolored by a deep resentment. She couldn’t understand what it was saying, but somehow she knew it was because of her, and a bitter string of tears rolling down the reddened sides of her cheeks raze clean lines where they tracked. That seemed to be the last straw. The girl pulled her back into the temporary relief of the iced darkness to snarl in her ear venomously.

“If it’s possible to name one thing other than decency to make friends, it’s honesty. You’re a _filthy little liar_. A liar to yourself, and a liar to everyone else in your life. If you want to spend the rest of your life crawling back into a coffin to be a corpse’s bride, by all means,” Boupha felt the same grip re-affix itself on her arm, and lift her off her feet before she knew what was happening. “Meet him halfway for once!”

Boupha’s feet kicked out instinctively, but she was already airborne before the thought that she was going head-first into the fire really registered in her. A terrified scream wailed out of her as the whole world went limbo in a blast of pain and red sparks. Withered, red hands grabbed her, spotted in ash, and hot coals. Then dragging her down into the sand. Dihn’s hands were so gentle compared to the roaring blazing climbing up around them, and the ash of the fire started to slide sideways like the rest of the inflamed landscape. The lake was on fire. The forest was on fire. The camp was an inferno, and there wasn’t even an icy wind to offer relief for such choking heat.

It was the fire from all those years ago. The same fire that stole Dihn away. It was the very same, and it ate her with a long starved greed. It knew it had been cheated, and it was happy to collect. It ripped at every nerve in her body, and there was no longer any escape from it. It had followed her relentlessly. It stalked her. It watched her try to forget it, and laughed. And now it had her at last, with only a few tears to extinguish drops of flame. 

The world shifted again, everything spun and tilted until it felt as though she was falling. Managing to look up through the sparks and spires, she catches sight of ANgelica one more time. As cruel as she was, and as terrifying as she was, Boupha wanted to see her. She wanted to apologize. She wanted to say so much, but she was falling away. More, and more of her was disappearing. Just before the wild colors devoured the world, and wove into too many hues, the darkness faded in around her. Cold, and vacant, and drowning. Spilling over the edge of the hellscape she had left behind and devouring the free fall all around her.

Boupha caught eyes with the girl still standing at the top of the ridge on the edge of what was left of the fire pit. Her face, much like her hair, and her nails, were different. They had been different for a while now, but it was only now that Boupha saw her transformation. The outer skin of Angelica’s face had burned away like wrapping paper, and a new face, unburdened by flame, stuck out like the new molt of a lizard’s skin. A wave of shock spiked through her.

She looks like...

And then the world dropped into nothing. Boupha only knew of mindlessness, and the last peppers of sparks floating in the air.

It had been her own face staring right back at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A TLDR for this chapter will be available at the Of Pride and Pestiferous Pathos Tumblr (of-pride-and-pestiferous-pathos). If you are unable to complete this for any reason please feel free to drop by and read that.


	4. Opheliainlove | Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for this chapter include: Internalized biphobia, MAJOR & GRAPHIC descriptions of body horror and extreme sickness, illness induced hallucinations, hurt/no comfort, mentions and depictions of death and a dead body, as well as canon typical violence. If not a little more bloody.  
> Please do be aware how extreme the effects of our illness is. There is graphic depictions of vomiting, growths from under the skin and orifices, large wounds described explicitly with descriptions of blood and other liquids. Be cautious about your own needs while reading this and please take breaks whenever you need to. This can be a hard read in certain points. The rest of the fic will not be this difficult and gruesome in its depictions of the disease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A TLDR for the Opheliainlove chapters are avaliable on our Tumblr of-pride-and-pestiferous-pathos

The darkness burned into a white light.

Boupha still had the burnt logs and ash in her mind’s eye. When she blinked, slowly, her eyes readjusted and dilated painfully in the afternoon sunshine. Red coals and darkness became white light, and dust particles drifting be the window. The time that it took her to realize she was awake, and the time it took her to realize she was standing beneath the skylight were the same. Granules floated down lazily in the sun, and Boupha took a generous breath in just to feel her lungs expand. They felt ancient. Unused. _Stiff_. Just like the rest of her body. 

On the exhale, mushed pink dropped from her mouth in stringy globs, and a few weak coughs followed behind it. More mashed flower petals. Boupha dimly thought of the pink man, but shoved the idea out of her head almost immediately.

_I feel like shit…_

Boupha really didn’t look much better either. She was too stiff to jump, but catching her own eyes on the mirror wall spooked her. The nodes that had once been in her arm and bubbled at the surface of her skin appeared to have sprouted. Green, almond shaped leaves budded at the tips of emerging sprouts. It was all fairly juvenile growth, but the leaves were already fanned outwards and bent up towards the light like grateful hands cupped in waiting. Green, swollen patches of what looked like moss pushed against the top layer on skin in distended patches, giving certain areas of her arms and legs gangrenous looking cysts. Semi-translucent clumps cropped up in bubbling patches to compete for space at her joints, and felt sensitive to the touch.

Her clothes were ruined and stiff, with a collection of different accumulated fluids and spatter running down her front. By the looks of it, they were an unsalvageable brown color that probably meant it just had to be thrown away… Or burned.The smell of sickness let her know that it wasn’t too far off from being a biohazard, at least. 

Leaves, and vines were prominently nestled around her skin near her brachial arteries, and had grown so much they looked like she had grown another muscle group. There was a small patch of green almost everywhere she looked, including the dip of one of her eyes. Much to her horror, the same pink buds she picked out of her trembling teeth were pushing out of the boil she’d torn open in her arm... And were now growing full spread across her clavicle in tight pods. Just barely out of the skin. There was already one open near her temple. The veins all over her body were darker. The skin was a sickly color that made her normally healthy, olive skin look grayer. Desaturated. The bags under her eyes had turned into hollows, and the contracting circles in her sclera twitched inwards like the rolling motion locomotion of a caterpillar. 

Boupha, struck by the absolute knowledge that she should be tearing absolutely everything off of her, raised her hand up to the flowering bud. But when she remembered exactly what her interference had caused last time, and she had to force it back down. All of the muscles in her body were tensed like she hadn’t moved in weeks, and Boupha had to wonder why she was standing here when the last memory she had was of collapsing. She looked down.

There were more flowers all over the floor. A visual bread crumb trail of where she’d been. It seemed easy enough to follow evidence that seemed so plain, but the end result was baffling when her stalling mind tried to fit some of the pieces together. 

There was the blood, and the greenish-black fluid on the walls from her desperate scramble to the door. A painted struggle that ran from the bed at the opposite wall, to the kitchen bar, to the atrium. The flowers. The handprints all along the frame. The branch. The obvious slide marker from when she’d collapsed.

There was more.

More splatters on the floor near the door, and entryway. Then... moving away? More marks. More erratic smears, and claw marks. More flowers leading to the entry and then to the far wall. In a perfectly straight line. 

_Did I... sleepwalk after I collapsed?_

Something didn’t sound right about that. It was too perfect. The trail was mechanical looking compared to the struggle at the door… But _why_? The scramble to the door was uneven. Sloppy. Desperate, and distressed. Compared to the clear exit trail, however, it was actually rather neat. One straight line from the door, to the far back wall, but no discernible reason why she would go over there. And that’s how the rest of the trail looked, too. Stop. Start. Stop. Start. Curved in a half circle, like a clock. She had been awake for none of it.

_That doesn’t make sense... If I was just sleepwalking wouldn’t it have been pretty aimless? Why go all the way across the room immediately, in such a straight line...? What was there to go to, it’s just a wall…? What changed while I was…_

Boupha followed the trail of greenish ooze and flower petals until she looked down at the warm square of sunlight at her feet. Her pained eyes rose slowly along the path, and she mentally back tracked her best guesses of where the sun tended to filter in in all the days she’d been there. The thought that came to her made some kind of screwy sense, and cool dread made the hair stand up on end. The messes might as well have been plot points on a map. 

_The flowers are laid out like a sundial… I went to the far wall, because that’s where… The sun was…?_

It really was like Angelica’s ‘ earth’ videos. 

Boupha locked eyes with herself in the mirror once more, just taking in her rapidly deteriorated appearance. There wasn’t a lot to go off of, but even disoriented, it was simple enough to put two and two together. They were _plants_. Plants that needed _sun_. Sweat condensed on the pinch of her brow and spotted the sides of her temple, but even sun baked as she felt, just toeing the line between the shadow and the light induced some kind of mindless paranoia. Her brain supplied a wall. An unseen perimeter between evil, and salvation. She knew she could leave. Obviously, she had walked around the whole time she had been dreaming (if you could call that _dreaming_ ), and that was the reason why she was probably so stiff, but there really wasn’t a really strong case for why leaving seemed so astronomically world-ending. As hot as it was, it made her comfortable to stand under the light. 

_Is that what all the fire and ice was about…? I moved out of the sun on accident, and my mind just wigged out?_

It was a theory, but it didn’t take a whole lot else into account. Maybe the strange temperature fluctuations were a result of a stimulus, but the rest of the events didn’t fit. 

At the very least, it didn’t fit the norm for her. Dreams were a flighty thing for her, and most of the time they were way too mixed together to remember what they were about once she’d gotten up. However, these didn’t seem like dreams. It was almost too realistic. The didn’t seem like dreams as much as they seemed like spliced memory being diced up, and shot back at her in HD. 

That didn’t make much sense, either, though. The parade _happened_. That morning together _happened_. The car trips _happened_. But the rest... The rest was a delusion, _somehow_. A seamlessly blended delusion woven into core memories. How it had happened at all? How was that was even possible just escaped her. Smart people always said that the brain was an incredible thing, but could it really do _that_? 

Boupha breathed, and just stood there, mind racing. It took more than ten minutes for all of the memories between July, and her introduction to the the facility to filter back to her properly. Over six months of her life. Returning to the apartment the day after, going into the next semester, planning Dihn’s reunion visit. The feelings that came after July. A few dozen Saturday mornings.

The sins on her hands.

_What of them…?_

Weight buckled in her chest, and for a moment, Boupha almost felt like another wave of that invisible fog from her dream had crawled into reality. However, she already knew that wasn’t the case. She knew exactly what this was once the memories came back to her, and the gaps in her mind closed enough to see a better picture of the present.

This was guilt. Regret. Remorse.

July 4th had been a special day for her, and August came with a lot more casual coffee dates and trips to the lake, thrift shopping, tourist trappings, a handful of local clubs, always stuff they just went out and did together. It wasn’t surprising that she felt more like herself, or felt more happy to be out and mingling. It wasn’t a stretch that Angelica was the person she was closest to, either, but the fact of the matter was that something _changed_ in July. She didn’t look at it in the face whenever it crept too close to them, and most of the time that something was easy enough to write off. There wasn't any room for things like that. That bubble of comfort could pop so easily. And then it would be gone, and she would never get it back. 

There hadn’t ever been another Angelica in her life. In the same way that there had never been another Dihn. Now that things had gotten so close, she was having a hard time accepting one, without compromising the other. Angelica didn’t know. If Boupha could actually help it, she would never have to find out either. But now that seemed ready to change, too. Just doing casual things together and living close by would be enough to make her happy.

If someone were to fall in love with her (and they absolutely would), and their living together came to a natural end, then she wouldn’t stop Ange. Angelica deserved to live her life happily. _However_ she chose. She already took on so much for Boupha’s sake; she honest to god really could be an angel. There wasn’t someone who really just gave out of the goodness of her heart like Angelica, and even fewer bothered to reach out as much as her, or give people as many chances as she was willing to part with. Angelica gave her enough of an out for her to want to help herself. She wanted the best for all her friends, and that included Boupha, but her love wasn’t the same as the one Boupha held away from her. 

It wasn’t a kind of love she wanted to acknowledge at all. It was a love that meant an end to something would have to happen, with no certainty anything else might begin. So, Angelica couldn’t know. It was a growing weight on her, now, just like it was a weight on her these coming months. 

_How could I even let this happen? How could I even let myself get into a situation like this? I_ _can't just… do that- not to her, and not to him._ It felt like betraying both of them constantly. And dragging that around with her was starting to wear her down. When she left for the facility she was actually relieved for the space. She loved Angelica, and she loved being around her, but with Dihn’s anniversary coming ever closer that shadow of guilt got darker. Deeper. Heavier. Suffocating near the end of their time together.

It shouldn’t have been, but it was. There was already so much darkness to deal with this time of the year, but it got to her. She was only supposed to be here for thirty days. It was never in the plan to stay here indefinitely . 

All it was supposed to be was a few days and a handful of weeks, and then she would go on to Maynard, meet up with Angelica again, and go pay respects. Maybe visit mom. Maybe just sit quietly and hope for all of these conflicting divisions in her loyalties to align. She wanted this to grow at her own pace. To just take things one day at a time. To see if that was a possibility. To see if maybe there was any plausible reality they could just keep this going forever. But that wasn’t even a plausible thought anymore. She could see it. She didn’t want to, but looking past concrete proof, for the benefit of the doubt wasn’t an option. Not anymore. The evidence was everywhere, and it stared back at her through the buds and sprouting leaves within her skin.

_I’m not going to survive this..._

It was a numb reality to realize there wasn’t any more time to waste, or hope for. But the signs were there, and she was finally rattled enough to pay attention. Boupha didn’t always listen to facts, but she couldn’t lie to the drain on her body, or how much it had deteriorated. She could feel wooden cords leeching between muscle fibers underneath her skin. The sensitive nerves kept her arms at a stiff angle so she wouldn’t brush any exposed skin against her side. Sharp, crawling pains shot out from the back of her hip every time she bent even slightly. Failing to keep them out of the way resulted in hot waves of lingering pain, and with the way the skin came up, she might as well have gotten doused with boiling water. She could practically hear the blood pulsing inside the drums of her ears, and running twice as fast to accommodate all of the constraint stressing the vesicles lining her neck. 

Perhaps, even more unsettling, she could sense the leaves situating themselves at a better angle for sunbathing. Like they were pondering over what direction to tilt. They prickled nerves that ran in larger networks than she’d suspected when they tugged and rippled. It gave her some indication as to how vast they might be, and it frightened her in a way too hopeless to grasp beyond the drop in her gut. 

Her fever hadn’t even splintered, much less broken and she was sure it wasn’t all to do with her apparent walk around in the sun. It was a visceral, gut instinct. Over time, she’d really gotten tuned in to that instinct. Just thinking about her body moving on it’s own made something inside her shudder. Hours were just _gone_ , and her mental absence apparently wasn’t needed to make that walk happen.

A small voice filtered in the air, but it took another minute for Boupha to hear it. She start looking around for the source. The phone was somewhere far away, but it could still be heard faintly. The same automaton-like voice wittering without any awareness:

“-d of message. To delete this message, Press 7. To save it in the archives, Press 1. To-” Was the voicemail _still_ running?

The phone was somewhere close by. It was reachable. She knew, with a start, that she had to get to it quickly. 

Panting laboriously, she toed the perfect square of sunlight with a mounting anguish. She shifted just outside the perimeter. It felt like a trap in here, like the walls were closing in on her. The room felt too big. When a toe dipped into the shadows, she recoiled like it she’d been splashed with ice water and gasped. Boupha choked through stuck lungs, and four new blooms easily spilled up the back of her throat like torn pillow feathers. A few petals puffed into the open air, but once the full force of it hit her, the rest choked out into her hands like wet globs of tissue paper. A drop of sweat dribbled down the bend of her forehead, and into the mess in her palms, mixing into the mess.

For whatever reason, that was somehow enough of a shock to snap her out of the groggy funk she’d been in. The flower mash was flung away with a painful snap of her wrist, and she ventured into the shadow.

It felt _awful_ , truth be told. 

It was a sticky, cold sort of wetness that penetrated down to the bone, and ran up the inside of her nerves like icelines. There was a nagging desire to return to the sun patch as soon as she left it, but it was squashed down just as quickly. The only real hope she held out for was that room might be more tolerable when the sun refracted off the mirror later in the dusk. For now however, with just the spotlight of sun at high noon, it was a tundra. She didn’t want to think about it too much. The more the thought about it, the easier it was to get colder. There wasn’t time anymore to think about it, anyways. 

Only bits and pieces of Angelica's voice were heard, but it was enough to tether her to the arduous task at hand. Boupha used whatever rage she had left to force her feet to kick forward. Grunting and slugging forwards against the pain rocking up her legs. Angelica’s voice was like birdsong after an especially long winter, even modulated through a speaker. She nearly sighed in relief from the noise, alone. A knee wobbled, but didn’t falter.

“-y last voicemail wasn’t all that... uh, _nice_. I wasn’t thinking. I know you’re not responsible for that, especially since... you’re in the _fucking_ hospital, but I let all of my emotions get the better of me, and I just wanted to follow up with an ‘I’m sorry I was a big old butt head, Bobo. I really should be the one with a grip in this situation.” Boupha forced herself to listen. Even with throbbing needles in her temples and the static in her knees, her search was paramount. She hobbled forward with alert ears. Sweat dripped ice water at the top of her forehead. It fell, drop-by-drop, until it met underneath her chin, and dribbled onto her shirt. The air smelled musky. Old with uninhabitance, and leftover food. The faucet was dripping, and the fridge ran, but besides the hum of the apartment, the only noise came from the phone. Her legs didn’t stretch like they were supposed to and they hardly listened to her when she urged them on, but they didn’t give out on her. She had to get to the phone.

The words were so faint that she had to strain the upper limits of her hearing to listen to them, but the fact that they were there at all motivated her to keep going. Out of sheer luck, (or some fucked twist of fate), the timing had lined up serendipitously, and the last voicemail in the box was running, again. For how many times, no one would probably ever know. Boupha almost wept with joy. It was a selfish kind of blessing, but both getting the full story, and getting to pass on over the barrage of voicemails that brought her to her knees before was more than she could have asked for.

_That’s right! I didn’t get to the last one, did I… It’s Angelica’s last one.. I didn’t miss anything. I just gotta get the phone. Call her._

“-really, for the most part of that I was mad, but only because I’m worried about you. Like- ... _really_ worried about you. I know the heroes are here for the public, and you go hero crazy every time the news comes on, but I just felt like I kept running into roadblocks, and it… kinda freaked me out. I don’t know, that’s stupid, I guess... The more I think about it, the more I think it’s stupid, actually… It’s dumb to just say that kind of thing comes from nowhere like that, but I guess I didn’t realize what it would be like for you to go into shut down like this. I probably should have had a little more faith in you before just flying off the handle. It’s probably just a bad situation, and you’re trying to comply with all their security codes, since all the doctors there actually know what’s going on, and you’ve actually got things all under control… Because you’d never just ghost anyone like that... you’re the most loyal, honest person I know! I was just super scared, and it got the best of me.”

Boupha really did weep, then. It hurt too much to brush her wet cheeks completely dry, but she wanted them off. It felt like she was crying herself dry, and at this rate it was only going to hurt the situation. She couldn’t tell if any of her tears manifested while she was sleep walking, but her cheeks felt raw. 

Fetid drool spilled over her lip. 

Angelica just sounded so... _Sure_... Just saying things like that , but she was also so unaware. That much was obvious.

Another generous dose of self-disgust weighed on her shoulders. Her legs bucketed like they really might give out that time. She’d been so focused on walking ahead, that when her left knee jerked up and out, she was genuinely caught off guard. It froze up, enough, to stay propped upwards at an awkward angle, but it followed a wave of heated pain when the cords were disturbed by the mauling constraint on her muscles. Some rabid part of her spit with vindication, and the rest of her sagged internally.

_No, Angel. I’m not… Please, just let me do this for you, I have to do this for you. You can’t just keep waiting on me for this. You can’t just keep making excuses for me._

There weren’t any good excuses. Just like there wasn’t any more room for cowardice.

_There’s no more time! I Don’t have any more time to waste. The phone! I gotta find the phone..._

She forced herself to prod heavy limbs forwards, even when the nerves began to static, and fill her legs with pins and needles. She couldn’t feel the center of them after a while, but it was probably due to the synapses overloading rather than healing. Bone scraped bone, and ground oddly against other intrusive jalaps laced between cartilage and marrow. Her legs were an immeasurable weight all by themselves, but localized. Coming back to the waking world surrounded by all-encompassing stress was outright reprehensible. The ridges of her back protested. Her arms dangled in their sockets. Her fingers creaked under loose grip tests, and her ribcage barely relaxed enough to expand. Pain came in webs that stretched from one end of her body to the other, lacing front to back in different measures. One of the worst knots was at the back of her neck, near the base of her skull. 

Out of all of the grating sensations that one had been the worst. It came from almost nowhere, but it intensified quicker than any of the other things afflicting her. From the top down, the plucks in her spine lit up slowly with a new feeling. Conjuring up a sensation similar to hot glass. She gasped, grabbing the back of her nape with a gravelly hiss. White dots winked in front of her eyes a moment, before vanishing. 

She _had_ to find the phone.

She kept enduring it until the phone came into view partially obscured by a tossed bed sheet. Just looking at it made her stomach coil in horror. It was on the ground. She knew immediately that she was going to have to bend down to get that, but the idea itself made her head spin noxiously.

_Oh god._

If just walking was an issue, then this might actually kill her before she could reach Angelica. Boupha shook her head at the passing thought, and slapped her palms against her own face enough to rattle some adrenaline into her system. It brought some human heat into her face, and satisfied with the jump in her heartbeat, she resolved to put the dread past her and do it. For _Angelica_.

_Come on!_

_Enough!_

_No more fucking_ pity parties _!_

_You’ve kept her waiting long enough._

_Go-!_

Psyched up as she was, her actions weren’t fast. They _couldn’t_ be. They didn’t have the luxury to be fast, but if she was smart she could make it out steady. A gingerly approach had to be factored in, just as much as strategy. Boupha unsteadily made her way over to the phone, and stared down at it, panting through bouts of shivering fits and rasps. She had to be smart about this. 

The plan was to drop to one knee, and crouch from there into a kneel. Hopefully, she could return to a crouch, and then stand back up. But half way down the whole maneuver failed. A muscle in her quad tightened up and locked from neglect. Instead of mechanically dropping into a controlled position, he legs crumpled and she slammed onto her shoulder; a yelp screamed out of her. The clamp of her tendons brought fresh tears into her eyes, and she grabbed the muscle, teeth grit, like she could make a bid for the cramp to release quicker. It was right in her ear, but the muted volume deafened even further when the full impact of her fall cannoned up the tendrils. 

Skin on her legs and shoulders oozed. Brackish liquid burned down her side like they’d been sanded with something. Hissing through her teeth didn’t stop the pain as much as she just tired herself out. It took some time to feel alright enough to get into a kneeling position, but when Boupha did, she finally grabbed the phone. It shook in her clasp, even as hard as the grip was. When she re-registered what Angelica was talking about, she’d lost part of the conversation. 

“- I wanted to see Maynard again with you, and I wanted to see what else we could get up to outside the city limits! I was just... thinking a lot about all the stuff we do together, and I wanted you back home, and I wanted to just go back to how normal things were before this. A part of you getting infected at the rally felt like my fault. I encouraged you to get on Twitch to meet new people, and get comfortable talking to a bunch of folks all at once, but you went off on V-day, and- I just felt responsible for that! Like if I had just kept my mouth shut, it wouldn’t have happened. Look, I guess what I’m saying is that I panicked, and I felt guilty, and I thought maybe you had a grudge at me for getting you sick, but _all_ of that is just- _Dumb_! 

"We have our whole lives to just hang out, and I feel like if you’re not answering, it’s because you’re getting important anti-BlackHat treatment, so- Don’t worry about answering me, even if you _are_ mad. We got our whole lives to duke that out, and I know you’re in good hands. Hahaha, I’m sure of that... Maybe I’ve just gotten too into my mystery forums. It’s probably a HIPPA violation to ask about this kind of thing, anyways… You’re a strong person. I just know you’ll be okay. I’ve gotta go, but don’t be a stranger when you _do_ call. Love ya’ Burham, Call me! ”

The call clicked off. A sinking gloom folded in on her like a sinkhole had opened up in her chest. Angelica’s voice was swapped for the message box automaton, and her melancholy grew. Boupha's fist clenched on the hardwood near the front of her bed, and she tried not to let how bitter she felt overwhelm her.She breathed heavy, deep breaths that put a bit of damp comfort into her sore lungs. Crying heavily, and really letting herself feel it, gave her another measure of it.

There were more, new notifications. More phone calls that didn’t have voicemails attached to them. More texts that she had missed in her inbox, from other people, but she ignored them, and started typing, instead.

_**GoodieGumDrops** : Hey. morning. Gtg soon but make sure to take care of ur pretty, pretty face and be nice to ur self!_

Sent at 8:30 AM, Mar. 3

_**GoodieGumDrops** : Good morning, Bobo. I’ve been going around getting in touch with some people for a few days now, but I got a cease and desist sent to me by the IHL??? I’m trying to gather some info right now, but I wanted to know what’s going on. This whole thing is just not vibing with me. I hate it and I’m frustrated, and I’m kinda mad no one else is so freaked out about this? I’m really worried about you! Sorry if i’m venting into our chat box, but I just want to hug u! Omg! People are just so frustrating!!! >:(((( _

Sent at 9:53 PM, Mar. 3

_**GoodieGumDrops** : Hey Bobo. I don’t know if you're getting any of these where you are, but I left you another voicemail. I uh....Well, I just wanted to send you something if you’re having trouble saying something back. I hope you’re doing okay. I’m doing everything on my end to try and get some updates. Take care of yourself. I know you’ll be out soon. Please just give it a listen, if you can. Maybe shoot me a text. Talk to you soon! And hey. I really miss you. _

Sent at 11:30 AM, Mar. 4

_Ang el, r u there. Ple ase ans wer me._

Sent at 1:09 PM, Mar. 9

_Please i need Hrlp_

Sent at 1:09 PM, Mar. 9

I didn’t even take a minute for her to get a ping back.

_**GoodieGumDrops** : BOUPHA...!!! There you are! What the FRESH HELL happened to you?! Are you okay?! You went completely off grid! And Everyone in your twitch inbox is harassing me to know what happened and get an update! God, i cant_

Sent at 1:10 PM, Mar. 9

_**GoodieGumDrops:** WAit!! Sorry, sorry, sorry!! Tell me what’s wrong first!! DX<_

Sent at 1:10 PM, Mar. 9

_I d ont know. i wwas sent here + i did an interrogation but i think im not priority, angel. They’re just left me here, aNfd I need helP. I have to talk to u befor i can;t anymOre ._

Sent at 1:10 PM, Mar. 9

_**GoodieGumDrops** : What??? I’m sorry Bobo, that’s a lot of scramble. If there’s a medical emergency, press the button on your bed to call for a nurse! You can talk to me later!! _

Sent at 1:10 PM, Mar. 9

_ADFlklkjhgfdADFSGHRWRk nonononoNOOBONO NONONONONONONONONNSNO_

Sent at 1:11 PM, Mar. 9

_**GoodieGumDrops** : Whoa! Dude, I mean it, for your better health, call a nurse or a nurse aid, I don’t have the hospital number!_

Sent at 1:11 PM, Mar. 9

_THere Arent any nurse s! Theres no doctors! TheyLEFt me!! They LEft me to die! Im in this room to di e PLease, I can’t R IP THEM OUT they ke ep growing and shiT I dont know What to do!1_

Sent at 1:11 PM, Mar. 9

_**GoodieGumDrops** : I...what do you MEAN???_

Sent at 1:11 PM, Mar. 9

Boupha groaned in frustration, fully realizing that Angelica didn’t realize how dire this might actually be. Lifting her hand back up towards the sunlight she angled her phone’s camera back down at her, and snapped a clear enough shot. 

Her hand was trembling so badly it was better than she could have hoped for, blurry as the sides were. The picture took a minute to send. Another hollow ring chimed off the phone, and the vibrations seemed to travel down her arm, and teem off of her insides like she was a hollow metal. It could be the cold. The sun was so lovely. Why did she leave it? Why would she ever leave that blissful place. It was so much easier to just lay there when she was in the dark, but the sun would feel so much better.

Her eyes blinked awake when the phone vibrated, and chimed, again.

_**GoodieGumDrops** : Holy shit_

Sent at 1:14 PM, Mar. 9

_**GoodieGumDrops** : Tell me that’s makeup. Is this some kinda halloween thing you’re filming? That’s not REAL, right??? _

Sent at 1:14 PM, Mar. 9

Boupha got frustrated enough for tears to edge back into her eyes, the keypad buzzed lightly under her fingers, but she hastily tried to type out a quick debrief of what was going on (with as little stress on her joints as she could get away with). 

Her hands were quivering. From the cold, the injury, or just the generally feeling ill,she wasn’t sure—but her thumbs typed quickly as the stiffness in her legs spread. Her shoulder had skidded across carpet, and the sting that followed that brought the smell of fresh blood back into the air. The loose skin from her shoulder blistered, but the blood only dribbled out in a thick ooze. Red, and a runny, black-green fluid bled into the sleeve of her shirt that until now, was relatively untouched by grime. Honestly, her leg was worse off, and indefinitely more concerning.

It wasn’t a giant fall, but something had happened when she hit. 

She could feel whatever had ruptured inside her leg bleeding up the stem of her femur like the marrow was being flash frozen, but she couldn’t tell what it was. One of the vines? Something else? It felt cold, and disconnected, but it was still spilling across the muscle in her thigh like anti-freeze, and she knew better by now. It couldn’t be ignored. Nothing could be ignored about this condition, and she wasn’t going to turn a blind eye to that anymore. At the same time, now that she had Angelica on the hook with pictures, maybe that thought and sentiment was too little, too late, as well.

She had to keep this simple. Of course, she might have been more likely to abide by her own advice if she didn’t feel like she was running on a timer. It was actually a little too easy to ignore when the thought of Angelica just sitting at home. So completely unaware of what was happening, flashed through her mind. There was a second of pause where the idea of just letting Angelica go, here, hit her. 

She could, realistically... _spare_ her from this.

As much as she wanted answers, did she really really need to be involved? There was always the option of faking it. Playing it off like it really _was_ an off-color joke for the channel. If she managaed to pull herself together she might have a half-passing jest to send, but then again, it was starting to get debatable, already. Was Angelica already on the IHL’s record? Would it better to warn her? Or try not to include her, and divert attention away from herself? Was there any safe option?

Ange always had a want for answers, but it might spare her the grim reality. Boupha was just starting to come to terms with it, herself. Did she _really_ want Angelica to think about this kind of thing? For the rest of her life?

It might be nice to just let her stay ignorant with bliss, and maybe a bit of hope- but... that wasn’t right, was it. 

Was it selfish to want to be remembered, or was it more selfish to preserve your memory at the expense of living? Hadn't she put Angelica through enough of that as it stood? Would it be safer to tell the truth to someone pleading for it, or to cast it in hopes they wouldn’t get burned by its sting? The last voicemail backtracked into her thoughts. What she had heard, what she had picked up over the text messages didn’t sit well with her. Maybe Angelica didn’t know the full details, and maybe she was powerless to do much at this point...

 _... But she’s tormenting herself. She keeps getting shot down for trying to help me, when she’s_ right _. She’s always been right..._ _They turned her away for a reason. They just don’t want anyone else in here to see what they’re doing. You were right._

 _Angel... Please forgive me for not talking to you when it mattered, and for making you worry so much about me. It’s going to be hard to listen to, but now it’s my turn to help. I know I don’t deserve for you to care about me this much… even a fraction of what you’re giving- but, I-_ _You have to know you were right._

 _You’re not crazy, Angelica, you’re right and that’s_ all _you are... You have to get the hell away from Metropolis, and from fucking Maynard. Get Mom , and get the hell out._ They _think that they can put enough thoughts in your ear to make you doubt yourself, but they don’t know how fucking_ smart _you are._

 _You have to have been sitting in front of the newsreels looking for me, right? It’s going to be bad._ _You have to get out._

_If the heroes really left us behind, I’m going to expose the truth and snap you awake , even if that kills me quicker._

_You_ have _to know._

 _I care about you, and I’m sorry I’m such a coward, and maybe even a leech- B_ _ut, I’m going to be your hero, today._ _I’m going to be better, even if it is too little, or too late… I’m gonna... be better than any one of those people calling themselves heroes!_

_Why thE hell w ould i fa ke this ive been stcuk here so fucking long and i didnt even bring my makeup!! This is REaL Angelica!!!!!!!Ive been like this for wek s now!! Im so fUCking sorrey!!!! andd i wanteD To call ypu and i fu ked it up, and now its this bad. I do nt know whats happening anyomer everything keep s chhhhangi nng around me! Ecver ything thime i Wakke UUp its been days and i dont know what to do anymore i dont know what to d o anymore, and you we re tring to callll me tha w holet ime!!!_

Sent at 1:14 AM, Mar. 9

_**GoodieGumDrops** : I didn’t mean it like that Bobo, PLEASE. Just stop for a second. Just breathe, and go slow. You’re panicking, and I barely understand what you’re trying to say._

Sent at 1:15 PM, Mar. 9

_**GoodieGumDrops** : Boupha, you need to just type one thought at a time. Go one at a time. Breathe. Don’t worry about the stuff I sent you, RIGHT NOW is what matters._

Sent at 1:15 PM, Mar. 9

_**GoodieGumDrops** : What the hell is that all over your arms?? Why is the room a mess, and why are you on the floor? Where are you, and what happened to all of the doctors? They were practically crawling out of the ground floor lobby’s elevator, was one ever even assigned to you?_

Sent at 1:16 PM, Mar. 9

_They WOn’t fucking do anything ange! The y Wont com e inside h ere! I tESTed Posit ive after m y testimo ny to thw stu pid ArchiVe , and and then The y left me here!_

Sent at 1:17 AM, Mar. 9

_No onE ha s visited t his g od damn roOm in W eeks!!!I thINk?? ITs bad._

Sent at 1:17 AM, Mar. 9

_Im fucki ng going crazy, and An d seeing things! I cant Te ll If im ah;lucinating, or If This is Fake, too, or the Heroes are just FUCKING WITH ME, BAut they Left! Im sEein SThings IM h earing things! Im sMelling things!! Eveetyrhing is just FlyIng off t he handle, and I have To tlak to you!!! We have to talk, it s taKing too long to type this dhit_

Sent at 1:17 AM, Mar. 9

_Sav ethe pictures and Call me! I HAve to Talk To u. Quickly!!_

Sent at 1:18 AM, Mar. 9

_**GoodieGumDrop** : alright…_

Sent at 1:18 AM, Mar. 9

Another migraine burrowed down the middle of her eyes, but the rising resentment in her chest kept that mostly in check. Boupha put the phone down enough to push herself off the ground, and into an uneasy sitting position. Mostly, so she could try and get her knees back under her. She had the phone. She made contact with Angelica, and she seemed to be taking this seriously enough. That was good. Progress. The call should come any minute.

It took some maneuvering, but after a minute of fumbling, and a lot of reorienting, she got enough of a grip on the bed to pull her legs under her and prop them up. It was hard to tell what else could possibly be happening now that she was awake but her legs weren’t nearly as functional as they had been, or _should_ be. They rotated on their joints like puppet limbs, and only moved in clumsy, and unbending movements like her calves had been swapped out for living plywood scraps. The worst part was that it was incredibly difficult to get them working after they’d gone down, and they pulsed with agony if the vines and tendrils underneath got damaged, or otherwise disturbed. 

The patterns on the wall were swirling again, and Boupha had to avoid looking at them so she wouldn’t get disoriented enough to lose her center of gravity. Lots of white noise crackled across the back ends of her ears like her own body was generating some kind of staticky interference, and she swayed on her feet, but she was overall sturdy enough to walk back to the dazzling comfort of the skylight. 

Her steps sounded heavier. Her body seemed less reliable, and her back was just killing her now, but she moved. 

That was something to be grateful for. 

Boupha idly wondered about the pros and cons of going back into the comfort of the light. On her journey back to it, the distance seemed to elongate. The cold sweat beading on her forehead condensed, and slid off her temple. What would you even call this? Photo-attraction? Heilio-obsessiveness? There was a word for it, she’d heard it practically every Saturday on the couch. Every Saturday.

_Photo- Photo- God, what was the word? It was the thing plants did. What was the word…? What was the word?_

She got as far as contrasting animal-words she’d heard over breakfast cereal (ironically, near the breakfast nook), when Angelica called her. Pain fuzzed at her vision, Boupha kept a death grip on the phone until she had fully stood up, and now all she had to worry was about balancing. Shade soaked her hands like an ice bath. She was grateful that the vibrations it set off were gentle enough to not disturb the growths in her arms, but her hands still tremored.

_That was fast… Was that fast? It felt like it took a lot longer to get up than a minute._

Boupha loosened her grip on the phone. The sweat and condensation smearing across the screen when she unlocked it left a slight residue. Her hands were still shaking, but each movement was thought through. Calculated. Carefully executed. She brought the running call up to her ear.

She knew Angelica would call. 

She was fully prepared for it. 

She wasn’t expecting anyone else, but the moment her voice came through the speaker, Boupha lost all the air in her lungs to awe. Sweet, and full blooded.

“Hello?” She asked, “ _Boupha_ , can you hear me...?” Boupha’s throat suddenly felt tight. There was so much she wanted to say. There was so much she wanted to promise and do for this girl, and even without the skylight she felt warmth push against the tips of her fingers like warm water. Her breath hitched, and for a second she lost all the words she had lined up so methodically in her head, but when she realized the audio sounded off, she looked down at the phone to realize that Angelica was staring back. They were face timing. “Holy shit, you look like… _Shit_.” Angelica laughed, nervous energy bubbling from her lips as she shifted the camera to better show her own face. She clearly didn’t know what to expect or do , and from the looks of it, she hadn’t changed in a few days . She had circles under her eyes, and a mess of blonde frays sticking off her head like they were trying to copy lightning bolts. She was very dressed down, to boot. “Where- where are you...?”

She was beautiful enough to lose words over.

“Boupha, come on, _talk_ to me. Why did you want me to call you? Your pics are good to go, but why did you ask me to even do that, and why do you even _look_ like that…?”

She cleared her throat, and tried to ignore the dark face reflected in her own window. The _buds_. The scratch in her throat that didn’t dissolve. She sounded haggard out loud, but ignored it in favor of more important things. There was a lot to say... and an uncertain limit.

“Angelica... I missed you. I’m so sorry…” She said without thinking, “I wanted to call you back and let you know I was fine, but I- I don’t think I _am_. I don’t think anyone sent here was, we got too close to the infection site, and-” Boupha flipped the camera and held her arm out for her to see, watching as Angelica’s face twisted with concern and disquieted with fear. Brown eyes raked across the screen as Boupha twisted and turned her arms before moving to pull up her pant legs to show off more of the lines. Something, much to her own disgust, hissed appreciatively about finally having her attention, and Boupha shivered as unpleasant prickles dotted up her back. She tried to smile for Angelica anyways, leaning on the breakfast bar for support. “I think we were doomed from the get-go… Wrong place, wrong time an' all that.”

“What the fuck? What the fuck? B, fucking go _get someone_! This is way beyond what you can take care of!” The panic was evident in her words, the way she sat up in her bed, frantically pushing hair from her face made it even more obvious. It was an angry sort of panic, but not one Boupha was ready for, and irritation flashed in the front of her mind so quickly, that she nearly dropped the camera.

“You think I haven’t tried?!” Boupha snapped, turning the camera back to face her, “The doors wont open anymore! The doctors were never here! That doesn’t fucking matter now. I’m dying! I'm as good as dead, already! But you _have_ to listen , because you can still get away!” Trying to stagger across the breakfast bar, and scooch closer to her sun patch was probably not the most elegant thing to do while face timing, but it was easier than just trusting her center of balance. This was all such _bullshit_. Fighting her own body, fighting Angelica, fighting the tears in her eyes. All of it was such _bullshit_ and all she wanted to do was just slip away into something dreamless. She just wanted to help and do the right thing, and it was just biting her in the ass. Constantly. It was bullshit because she wasn’t even angry. She was scared. She was just worried, in pain, and still not sure what was going to happen to her. 

Well, not completely unsure, she had some idea...

Once she came to the end of the breakfast bar, Boupha had to catch her breath. Her steps felt heavier, and heavier, and air came in through pinholes worth of space. It _hurt_. It was frustrating, because how much it hurt. It ached constantly, and she only had this one chance left. The anger reformed. It doubled. Tripled, and then it froze over. It fell into a frozen ice, and suddenly it was bleeding grief. Angelica’s baffled expression didn’t stop her from saying her piece, but through the wilting sadness, Boupha felt a good chunk of fight leaving her. She was well aware that she probably looked insane... Sounding a little teary wasn’t the worst thing.

“You were righ-right- about _everything_ , Ange. You have to take my mom and get away. I don't know _what_ has me, but it's bad… It’s airborne and you're still too close to the city center to be safe from it.” Boupha had cried a lot in this little room, but they never had the same punch as these ones. They came too ready. They left too quickly. Angelica looked like she was going to be sick.

“... They really- They’re just not going to help you…? ” She all, but whispered to herself. Something clenched hard in her chest, and Boupha turned away from the camera, burning with an intense shame. It was hard to tell what it was from. It was mostly just from a lot. Angelica didn’t deserve to look that distraught. She wasn't worthy of any of her stress or her pity. She didn’t need to look like that. She never needed to look like that. Boupha didn’t feel like she deserved anything at this point. 

_Don’t look at me like that… I never earned that…_

Boupha swallowed a scowl, and pleaded with her Angel to just, somehow, understand. Just realize these things. They were so obvious. They taunted Boupha’s every move. They followed her for months, and now they were finally collecting on her lack of penance . A whimper curled on the back of her tongue, and shredded into something nonsensical. It took a moment of swallowing more of them before she could find it in herself to force out another word.

“I _know_ you want to help me. That’s why I have to be fast. They let me keep my phone for playing nice with them. I don’t know how many people they cut the lines to, but they left mine open. I’ve been out for a few days- weeks even- and haven’t used it, but they’ll notice, soon. I know you did your best, but this is the only thing you can do now… If you want to help me, this is how you do that, Angel. You get out. You just get out and get the word out. You need to warn other people then lay low. Because the people who asked me to come here in the first place are the same ones that just want to sweep this under the rug, and snuff the problem out like it's a controlled burn that got out of hand. I-”

“What are you talking about?! Boupha, you can’t just expect me to leave you in there! Not after this... or- whatever the hell is all over you body! You can barely walk around. I can’t just-”

“ _Yes_! You can! You _have_ to, Angelica!”

“ _No_! I just get left by the sidelines for weeks and the minute you talk to me, you can’t even promise you’re going to be _okay_?! You can’t even promise me, I’ll get to hug you, or tell you things are going to turn around?! Or look you in the eye without a _fucking_ camera?! Why are you just laying down to die?!”

Angelica was a girl who would give you the skin off her back if you asked for it. She was one of those rare people who always had a heart full enough to spare a cup of feelings, and always remembered birthdays like they were holy ceremonies. She’d put her soul into pictures to share with strangers, and pass around friends. She was forgiving, and patient, and dorky, and beautiful with wimzy tickled eyes, and wild locks of blonde hair that made her epitomize the beauty of sunshine, soaked edens. She was also someone who never shied away from the truth, or from calling out other people on their shit. Anger was a slow, but honest thing for her, and getting any of it usually came from a justified place. It was another way Angelica cared for her friends, and loved ones.

And deep down in the marrow of her soul, Boupha felt filth crawl after her from reaches she only knew from sideways glances. A despair rang through her like a falling church bell, and she knew she didn’t deserve those soft eyes trained on her own, dirtied face. 

She knew all those quiet wonderings about her feelings were just… the truth. Lying in wait for her to recognize it.

...It _must_ be. 

She could just see herself in the small corner of the rear view screen, and what stared back at her further corroded any bravery she had. More of her own mind turned in, on itself, venomously. Rabidly. Was this her punishment? Was this the truth? Was she so filthy on the inside it had manifested outwards? Was that why Angelica was so upset? It took her this long to figure out she was this dirty, and vile under her skin? It wasn’t the Boupha she knew. Her composure dropped, and shattered like glass.

"Because _I don't deserve anything else_! I'm fucked up, Angelica! I _know_ I'm a shit person. I _know_ I'm a coward- and I _know_ I _don't_ deserve to even be called an honorary hero-" Something snapped. Eyes flushed in flocks of tears, resignation heavy on her brow, and anguish were the only things still coloring her cheeks. Tears dripped onto the phone as she stared down the frame of Angelica’s face and clutched the small device hard enough for the casing to creak. 

She wanted to shake her. Wanted to yell about how long she had kept this side of her away from her. To scream about how she never wanted it, but she wanted to hide just as badly. She just wanted Angelica to just _understand_. Wanted her to just have it all click into place so that this would be easier, but Angelica didn’t understand. There was no click. No building epiphany. She just stared back at her. Tears to match tears. 

Despair inside a pair, and double dosed for two. Angelica wasn’t ever going to realize. She was just going to have to say it. _Confess_. Maybe that would earn her a simpler death. A quieter out. A peace of mind for at least one of them. One last kindness for Angelica’s millions. Boupha’s conviction was grander than any of the word that she could hoist forwards.

“...I never deserved to be anything to you. Even if you were _everything_ to me.” If it was possible to look even more horrified, Angelica had managed to develop it into an expression that circulated just as many flipping emotions as Boupha was processing until it landed on something stunned and silent. Her head shook in a horrified ‘no’, but the words didn’t follow through. Boupha didn’t wait for her. “I know I-I took advantage of being your friend- and that I wasn’t a good one. I was a shitty, _shitty_ person... But- _Please_. Help my mom. Help yourself.” She almost made it to the couch before she fell again. 

Hobbling a few feet from the couch, she only barely managed to get half in the sun before her feet caught underneath her and she went crashing to the ground. The phone clattered to the ground. Angelica’s voice following it. She groaned, curling in on herself against the shock waves ricketing up her back. Following the topple, a pulsating residuum throttled up her back in her nerve breakers, like they had finally ripped apart for good. Every bit of her spine arched up and off the ground. A scream followed, and the agony that followed made her feel as though her entrails had been set ablaze. Barbaric pain. Like someone had taken the time to peel open her ribcage and sand off the top layer of skin, maybe even polish off their exploits by dumping salt inside the cavity. 

Everything seized. Her chest constricted, and didn't let her inhale again. 

The coughing started.

Just as she began to sit up, Boupha’s shoulders jolted forwards and her forehead knocked the ground with a hard crunch. Distantly, she could hear Angelica’s voice, even through the speckles of light that swam in front of her sight. The phone was half propped against the far leg of the living room table awkwardly. 

_Do_ _n’_ _t lo_ _o_ _k at m_ _e._

Reaching out for the phone with all the intention of turning it over, Boupha halted as the feeling of something crawling up her throat on spider legs brought on another round of violent convulsion. The coughing came in spats. And at first, nothing but a lather of pinkish foam came out. Unlike the past few times, these blooms fought on their way up. Small quills caught on the red flesh like blackberry spines, and cactus needles. Fine. _Sticky_. Her chest expanded then bled into wheezes like a broken fire-bellow that had been torn at the gills. 

It only stilled when three perfect Camillas dropped off her distended jaw, and splotted across her drool splattered hands and the tile around her. A thorny stem coiled around them like some twisted corsage had been offered to her. 

She almost collapsed on top of them when they were fully out. Disoriented and blinking at the open air with sightless eyes. Pain numbing to nothing, then everything, then nothing, again.

“Angel...” She bubbled, tasting the blood on her lips, “... Where are you?”

“Boupha, what happened?!” A faint wail shrieked back at her. On her side the volume was low, but thankfully, it was loud enough for her to reach out and grab the phone without having to look for it with her eyes. She didn’t try to get up again. Just held the phone close to her chest, and breathed like cradling it would transfer over to Angelica, _somehow_. Like it was a comfort. Angelica was yelling questions, but none of them really seemed to register. 

“S-Sorry...” Boupha apologized, breathlessly twisting to lay on her back to ease some of the stinging of the lines in her arm, “I f-fe-fell, again. I didn’t mea-mean to… I’m s-su-suposed to be-” 

“Are you okay?! something just came _out of your mouth!_ How long has this been happening?! B, what-” The camera shook on Angelica’s end. Boupha smiled at the thought of her pacing. She always paced over the littlest things. One time she had bought a lip gloss and found out it expired the day before. Paced enough to burn and circle in her bedroom rug before Boupha had to tackle her to make her sit. It made her feel overly fond and sentimental. She felt better after finally getting that off her chest. Not _good_ by any means, her body was a collapsing set of tunnels that wouldn’t hold out much longer, but her mind floated in lukewarm appreciation over the small pleasure of watching Angelica move.

She really _was_ beautiful. Maybe it was the sun, but it was the warmest she felt in a long time. Warmth. Appreciation. Familiarity.

... And _love_.

Angelica seemed to realize she was being stared at after a minute. The questions, the panic, and the manic propulsion all came to a winding close, and soon they were just staring at one another with discerning curiosity and soft reluctance. A hush that they had never shared before now softened with a familiar recognition, and they stayed trapped for only a moment. Boupha was the one who spoke.

“I need you to listen to me, okay...?” 

Boupha tried to speak as slowly and as clearly as her mind would allow, but the floating haze kept her from understanding if anything she said really came off that way. The scent of blood was overwhelming her, and the taste burned on the lines of her lips. Angelica’s mouth tightened but she only nodded. There was stillness to her understanding, and she let Boupha continue. Trepidation scored lines in her features. She was still so _beautiful_. Boupha looked at Angelica, half aware that this would probably be the last time. 

It was hard to tell if she would be able to, but a part of her wanted to remember Angelica. She wasn’t particularly religious—even if her mom was—but she’d always liked the idea of reincarnation. Find her way back to her Angel, someday, somehow. And so she looked her over one last definitive time, taking in all the small details before she finally said what had to be said. It was comforting. Like a second chance. 

Turning her hand around in the afternoon light, she watched the way the light curled around her hand, and the way shadows formed. She moved her fingers, and turned her hand to see how far down her forearm she could get them. A life that followed. What would they become? Boupha liked to think that if she tried to make an imprint, she could. She liked to think she could keep this person attached in some way. She would get a chance to come back, and maybe do things better. Do things right. 

Become something just as _angelic_.

“...I’m listening, Bobo.” Angelica murmured. 

Her voice was a quiet noise, but somehow, it was also the loudest thing in the room. There were tears bubbled on the tops of her cheeks, and a caved in gloss to her dark eyes. There was a searching desperation in them, that becokend her. Pleaded with Boupha for answers and pushed her on. Even if they were eclipsed with fear. Dejection sat heavy on her shoulders, and now Boupha knew that it had to be time. Now _had_ to be the time.

“Angelica... I’m so _fucking_ sorry. I know you don’t- it’s not the same for you, and I _know_ that- but, for _me_ it’s... it’s- I-I... love you.” Angelica stared at her. She didn’t say anything, but those wide eyes stood in place, and stared. 

It had been the right time. Boupha knew it had been. She hadn’t been wrong, so why… did something feel wrong?

Angelica was still. So still, that she didn’t look like herself. A nerve slipped, and the cold of the room soaked back into her palms. Fear seeped into her mind like water through a wall. When Angelica said nothing back to her, Boupha’s face scrunched.

“ _What_?!” She barked, “Is that _really_ so awful? Why are you-”

The screen blinked, and the image of Angelica’s face disappeared in a jarring glitch. After the picture unfroze, the entire screen flipped through several pages of different apps before finally shutting down and black-screening. Boupha gaped at it, but only saw the vague outline of her own misshapen body in the light of the skylight and the uncomprehending expression on her face. She was so stunned, that the moment a voice boomed across the ceiling of the same room, she screeched. Terrified some other terrorizing spirit was coming to punish her for even _trying_ to make things right _,_ instead of just dying like she was probably supposed to.

“I’m sorry: _Boupha Muy,”_ the electronic vocals sounded, “But due to a confidentiality breach, all outside lines have been stripped from your room’s verified availability. Please note: Clearance to speak has been terminated for the safety, and of the good of the public sphere. The International League of Heroes thanks you for your patience, loyalty, and service to this city during the crisis of such trying times. However, a direct clash against orders from the League's Administration Head: _SonarPunk_ must be followed, per regulation, with disciplinary actions and cannot be avoided. If you wish to make an appeal to higher offices, names, numbers, and conglomerates, attorneys at law will available to compensate you, after thirty days following the termination.”

She stared upwards, baffled. Quaking. “W... _What_?” She squeaked, feeling incredibly small. 

Boupha wasn’t yelled at by people a lot, but she couldn’t help but feel like a small child under the masked disdain of some looming face. The room’s voice was so _cheerful_ that she got the impression it was smiling hard through a tight glare and she shrank under the sound of it. 

“Resources from the collections desk are still available, per request. Group hospice therapy is on channel-”

“Wait.”

“-35; you can call the number listed. Due to a noticeable uptick in your vegatative phase-shifts, regular food supplementation may stagger to prevent wastage. In the event of a negative decline in health, please shelter yourself somewhere open, so that trained professionals are put at less risk during retrieval.”

“ _W...wait!_ What do you mean?!”

“-As per the note in your file, a partnering funeral home will-”

" _Shut up!_ What do you _mean_?! _Retrieval_?!”

“- apply appropriate measures to ensure the healing of your loved ones is taken into consideration for the following proceedings-”

“No... _No-no-no-no_ \- _No!_ Please _. Please! You can't do this!_ _”_

“- due to threat of: _Biohazardous Pathogens_ and _other Wastes_ all remains in your repertoire must be shifted in your preference sheet from: _Closed Casket_ to _Cremation_ for the safety of IHL Staff, your family, Metropolis, et al.”

What was once trepidation yawned into a cavernous, pitting fear that wove through her deeper than the raised lines under her skin. The more the room spoke over her, the more that knowing dread she’d been nursing swelled. She knew she was dying. She knew that the phone’s ‘window of opportunity’ closed the longer she held onto it, and she knew that the heroes were probably watching her somehow despite her inability to find the cameras. But there was nothing so mindless as the fear of imminent demise, and nothing so terrifying as being ensnared with the expectation to follow through with it quietly.

“Thank you, once again for your service to the International League of Heroes.” Her death was already all laid out in clean little lines, and nice little phrases. And she helped them do that. They were just waiting, now. Like vultures hanging their heads. Breathing hard, eyes dashing to corners and hidden spaces, she tried to find their prying eyes, trying to pinpoint exactly where the voice was coming from, trying to look the people killing her in the eyes. To no avail. Her breath fells backwards. “And have a _lovely_ rest of your day!”

The rising score of the IHL’s logo played across the back of the speakers like the noise alone was trying to corner her, and Boupha shrank again, even as she screamed, _“Please!_ Please _don’t... Don't do this, oh god- Please- Don't do this!”_ It closed out to silence, and the presence in the room emptied out to nothing in a little under three seconds. Left to herself, Boupha gaped, eyes still cast up.

That was it, then. That was it, and they weren’t even _subtle_ about it. 

Hell, they even asked _her_ to get somewhere that would make this easier for _them_ to get her body! If there was any shadow of doubt before, then it was plain as day now. Anyone who came here, came here to die. Breaths came in too shallow and panic came too easily. Every rational thought, or action took immense concentration, and visions wavered at the corners of her eyes. Empty space turned into movement she never saw directly. Something scuttled. Was someone in here? Was _something_ in here? Was it was the disease that was supposed to kill her, or-

 _“Boupha…”_ A whisper behind her, barely a noise. _Him_. 

Shaking, she turned around. Hands dropping from the empty screen she was still clutching, and searched with neurotic fixation. For _him_. 

The air around her was warm, comforting, even, but Boupha suddenly couldn’t relax. Eyes were on her. Every hair on her body stood on end, and sweat slid down fever slicked skin in fat pills. Those eyes had _always_ been on her. There was no one there, but she knew _he_ was watching. They had stayed on her ever since that night she left him at the house. He’d seen her. He’d heard her. He knew she’d left him behind, yet again.For a soul, and a bottle of booze. And now he was here to kill her. 

Dihn was here for her. Somewhere sightless, beyond her, but _waiting_. 

She could feel his _anger_ … That _hatred_. That _wrath_ in waiting. 

Outside, in the darkness, the patterns on the walls coiled idly, spinning and squirming within the engravings. They flexed and jabbed at one another, like a pile of snakes that turned inwards, and consumed one another. Writhing. Snapping maws. Winking eyes glow black. Sudding color that reabsorbed into nothing. _They_ watched her too, and only stayed away because she was in the sanction of the sunlight. 

There was death in the darkness, and that was the only thing she was _certain_ of. The invisible borders. Those lines she’d seen before she’d gone after the phone, resolidified, and Boupha trembled like a leaf. Her prison had gotten smaller. Her end was creeping closer, and she was sure that if she didn’t keep her eyes on everything, whatever was stalking her would use the opportunity. 

_He was here_ , and she could hear him hissing at her.

“ _Boupha!_ ” 

The voice was barely audible. Quiet, and crackled. 

Every time that it rasped, it came from a different origin and Boupha’s head snapped in different directions trying to follow it. Crying, and cowering when nothing showed itself. Pleading and whimpering did nothing to placate it. A hand dragged across the carpet. She saw nothing.

Despite how small, and luminous her cage was, Boupha tried not to breathe, for fear of being seen. A small part of her, overshadowed, knew that Dihn would never have done this. He was a kind boy. He would have grown into a kind man. Every Dihn in her memories was just as well, but under her fear, everything else drowned. Shame, remorse, and sickness had chewed her common sense to pieces. And unable to forgive herself, the Dihn of her nightmares became real. The Dihn that had never existed became more real than the one in her mind.

“D-dD-dihn… Dihn, _ple-please_ don’t kill me…” Boupha whispered, eyes flickering between the couch and the bathroom, “...I just wa-wanted her to _know_... _Dihn, please_ , I just wanted he-her to _know_ …” Something fell in the kitchen, and Boupha barely stopped the warbling yowl in her throat. She swallowed it, a buzzing pain following until her tongue numbed. It lost all feeling and a long fretful whine squeaked out of her throat. She vaguely tasted bile bitten blood. The shivering never stopped. Her frightened eyes scanned over nothing, and the the room curled with displeasure.

The phone seemed like it was trying to turn itself back on and restart, but every time it got half righted, the screen would glitch and then black-screen shortly after. Silently. The small company jingle it normally projected was completely silenced. It was just circulating. Reblocking itself. Coagulating.

 _It’s_ their _fault…_

 _It’s_ their _doing…_

_They were- this whole time, they were watching me…_

_They took An_ _gelica from me, and I didn’t even-_

A sudden, horrible thought hit her. A sudden _horrible_ , and _unwelcome_ thought that made Boupha’s stomach drop like she’d been thrown. A thought, that among her other horrors, was _a far worse reality_ than she was prepared to deal with. 

_Did_ _I_ … The video call. _Wait too long to-_ _no-_ It froze. _Ohhh..._ _no..._ Right, as she said… _No, No! No! No no, no, no, no, no! I was ready! I was trying to be honest! I_ was _! She had to have heard me! They couldn’t have- I wasn’t-_ I love you. _I... I_ was _-_ And now, she had no way to make sure Angelica _ever_ heard her. There was no way to _make sure_ that she _knew_. She had failed herself in the worst way, and by extension she had failed _Angelica_. _Too late._

It was too much for her to handle. 

Color bled into her eyes like cut veins, and the lines in the wall thrashed. A ripple of pain moved across the top of her ribcage like a snake was slithering around inside of her heart valves, and trying to make a sizable den. Pressure collapsed down on her, in hard coils that got tighter the more she screamed her vocal cords dry. Wheezing herself into another attack, her hands ripped down from her hair to clasp over her mouth. She already felt the spines. The perfect leaves. The petals. Flowers crushed between her molars, then-after some retching- they shot up in a spew of bloodied pus, and phlegm. Thorns dragged her tongue like rakes on the way up, and fresh blood dribbled down the bottom of her jaw between her teeth. Speckling the tile face. Mixing unevenly.

Compared to whatever was caught in the flowers, the metallic brine of hemogoblin tasted sweet. The taste alone sent her into another round of putrified gagging. Heaving that didn’t let her breathe. The world went lopsided enough to upset her balance, and only the adrenaline shockwaving through her blood saved her. Her hands shot forward, just barely catching the edge of the floor rug under her hands in a jangled hook. A death clutch that made her bloodless knuckles almost grey out. 

An illogical portion of her mind screamed that darkness meant death, and she obeyed it wordlessly- without notice to anything but the grief, and the alarm. She couldn’t stop wailing. There wasn’t much else she could do. It was the collapse of everything around her island of light and everything beyond it.

All that there was, was her. There was nothing else. Everything else was gone, and it was all her fault. It was the end after all. She had left everyone else behind… And this was the action against her inaction. The judgement.

Flowers and petals globbed off her tongue, but she didn’t truly see them until they colored most of the space she had confined herself to. The exhaustion, and complete bereavement consumed her from the inside. She only saw them when the tears bled away enough of the colors staining her vision to watch them. Her sight pooled, and objects melted like fallen inkwells. The congruous pattern of the blossoms only seemed to further disorient her. She nearly passed out. 

Wobbling on her propped hands, she reached up, and pulled a petal off her tongue. Another stuck between her teeth. Delicate pink. Rippling. Spinning to the center. Whispering. They meant _something_. Their pattern scratched into the back of her eyes. Lingered. Even trying to comb the darkness for Dihn, they branded over the changing shapes in the darkness like a stamp. Like she had stared at the sun, and the white imprint was still dilating in her irises. It was a white overlay that stung into the ripples of color so vindictively, it made new shapes. Spoke new threats in her ear. 

Seeing out of her left eye was starting to become impossible. Her jaw hung open, saliva dripping off of her teeth in thin rivulets. A bone popped, and clicked in its socket.

It didn’t matter to her. Not really. Not anymore. 

Between the shadow’s caustic threats, the circling trims of white, and the fetid chains of laced flowers rattling out of her, Boupha lost her grip on reality. There was just too much to keep track of, and her mind was pulled too far between all of the different dangers. It became too much. Far too much to keep a grip on her. So, in an effort to protect itself, it receded and her snapping heartstrings led the tune to her mental decay. 

Boupha gasped on needles that wouldn’t come out, and struggled to stay upright against the whirling world around her. Even hunkered down so low to the ground, at some point the tip in her balance ran sideways and she sprawled. With a weak choke, she clawed out sightlessly and grabbed on to the first things that grounded her. The leg of the coffee table wasn’t the most stable thing in the area even as the whole thing rocked. Instinctively she tried to right herself by pulling it closer to her body. 

After a painful few stops and starts, Boupha dropped back onto her side. Heat baking into cold skin as strength tapped out. Irritated nodes broke. More black goop dotted across her chest and dewed into fat drops. The carpet wasn’t rough, it was actually pretty soft because it was so new, but just having the fringe brush the thin skin across her arms left behind red abrasions. It hurt too much to even slide her arm along the carpet. 

She was a pretty wild child, and she’d had her fair share of spills as a young kid, which included fights she’d get into with any boy besides Dihn, but this was worse than anything she’d even gotten out of a life filled with rug burns and other inflictions. A broken arm, a trip to the hospital for appendicitis, none of it was _this_ bad.

Struggling became a mindless back and forth between different nervous systems that were at odds with one another. Sit up and avoid choking, or stay low and avoid the wandering dangers in the dark corners. Those were the choices, and neither was making headway. 

She pushed herself up onto her elbow, and a particularly sensitive synapse went of. Her knee jerked upwards reflexively, spine bending. She choked on loose drainage, and the yelping cry that came out turned into a gummed up warble. People’s voices filtered in and out of her mind’s ear. Angelica's voice was lost behind the muzzling chokes of longer stems winding out of her esophagus, and Dihn spat something venomous at her when she dared to sob afterwards. 

A sharp sting crept across her stomach like fingers, and filtered up into the meat of her abdomen once they finally came out. Half of them were chewed in some places, but otherwise, they were rather immaculate. It was a relief and a torment to breathe harder, now that they were gone. She tried to scream once they’d come out, but without much of a voice left, she was left to demurring, watery sniffles whenever she got enough breath in to allow it.

She stared up into the sky light from the strange, half twisted position on the floor. Was it just her, or was the air getting fuzzier? It reminded her of the plaza. It wasn’t just the colors, was it? Chartreuse speckles in the dust, drifting in the sunshine, soaring higher on the small wind trails the air conditioning gave off. 

Dihn’s knuckles scraped against the walls when he got too close to corners. He stalked around her on uneven, charred limbs, growing increasingly annoyed the more she wept quietly inside the walls of her sun patch. She saw him out of her better eye, and cringed when he slunk closer on twitching limbs to hiss raspy whispers towards her. Her skin prickled as uneasiness gripped her. She wasn’t in his reach in the light, but other things, just like him, moved in the darkness, too. Different corners homed cracked, soot-smoked flesh, and spiteful blue eyes. Nursed grudges, and hateful words were tossed over furniture. They were too fast to catch, but if she turned quick enough, she’d catch the shape of a profile, a lock of hair, the line of a nose, the pale skin on a shoulder. However, their eyes were his, and always on her. 

Disdain laced the stale air like the yellow-green puffs wafting by the clouding skylight, and Boupha huddled in on herself. She couldn’t understand what they were saying, at first. They spoke over their teeth, and hashed syllables between fluctuating volumes like they were tuning in and out of reality on a radio dial. Three of him, all talking over each other, but the closer they slunk the clearer their words became. It was a lifting veil she immediately wanted to draw back down. 

One chewed lovely words that brought back memories. Their unbridled theatrics in the woods, their waltzes in the living room, stolen moments behind their cars when they were still sneaking around his mom, and the soft appreciation she had for his quiet disposition. She was the first one to kiss him when they grabbed each other's hands and ran, and he was the last one to let go when they inevitably had to separate and return to the world outside their bubble. They were each other's firsts for everything. The man in the kitchen cooed dreams she clutched in early mornings, and the subsidence of tears she had never let shed and never told another soul. He beckoned her away from all of this pain, a gnarled hand just barely around the side of a cabinet. She wanted nothing more than to obey- to touch them again, and experience that old, deep-seated security in real time. It didn’t matter how mangled and crooked the man in the kitchen was. Gangly limbs much too long to be human, and peeling flesh that just barely hung off bone in stinking slabs. Just a taste of that old life, those sweet daydreams, spun her soul like sugar. She might have dared to reach out for his hand if the other ones weren’t just as eager to grab her attention. 

Much like their screaming, they came and went in flashes that rose in a toss up between all three of them. He would be there, and then he wouldn’t be... He’d be in front of her, and then he would be just an arm, or a grin, or a sneer. But his eyes were always too bright to disappear correctly, and she’d watch them tearfully like hornets. Just when she focused on one, another would barrel out from his dark hollow and barrage her.

Just as one bayed pitifully, to entice her into their outer ring, another snarled vitriol and lashed out. Hissing words she always feared he'd say. Bellows, and rolling constants overturned in guilty thoughts she always had when she kissed him, then disappeared for days on end. The days she pursued her own happiness. The sad half smiles he’d part with, and she’d pretend didn’t mean anything. 

He was such a quiet person. When he saw her leave for parties, did he ever think less of her? Did he ever second guess them ? Did he secretly bury himself in books and old detective shows so that he didn’t have to think about that? How often did he just swallow whatever shitty feeling hit him when his girlfriend went out drinking with strangers and classmates? How often did he catch himself thinking the wrong things about her for her insistent need to be the top of the line? The party girl? The friend to all friends? 

This Dihn said it all. It rounded on her, spit flecking the air when he called her a whore, a slut, and a leech. Even with half of his face gone, he was unrepentant. Unapologetic. Boiling over, and nastily detailing all of the ‘freedom’ she must have enjoyed. All of the ‘company’ she must have had. Speculated on all of the boys she’d pretend weren’t eyeing her up and down, and cutting apart any salvageable benefit of the doubt that she wasn’t aware of why they were there. 

Every evil thing she’d ever thought to herself, every spiteful thought, fought to snarl over one another. Her head snapped from side to side, trying to follow them, _trying_ to establish what was the largest threat. 

She got brief sensations of hands on skin, or scorched nails catching on her clothing before they disappeared too quickly to track. The over heightened gap between their tones made her dizzy with a fretful mania. Without an outlet, she clawed at her own shoulders, teeth scraping against her forearm in distorted effort to escape a closed capsule. Mindless frenzy. Fighting and flying weren’t options in her mind, anymore. 

Moans and lamentations wracked her body, blood and drool dripping from her lips in a viscous lather that pooled under the point of her jaw. There were too many colors. Too many people, too much to process. Whispering just behind her shoulder, and breath tickled her ear like they were floating just above her like a poltergeist, but he was never there when she looked. He must have planned this. He must know how _badly_ this hurt, and relished how little he had to push her to make her fall apart. 

The last one standing was the worst, though. She might have thought there were only two if she had kept her eyes out of the wall of mirror. She looked back at her own reflection to find him in her place. Sad, and pale looking, withered, haggard. He was the most like Dihn out of all of the specters edging around the circumference of her patch, and his eyes blankly canted off into the distance as his mouth moved. His empty eyes lingered on her general shape, but they remained mostly the same—as they had been when Angelica had been on her lap, and he still remained half sunk in ash—only this Dihn’s mouth was free now. He spoke, but no sound came out, and a blankness blanketed the room instead of a voice.

It wasn’t a matter of trying to hear him over the other two, and it wasn’t trying to be quiet, but the audible noise he did make was either so high it was above her hearing range. Or so loud that her brain just couldn’t translate it into anything more than drawn blanks in the chaos. The silence eeking out of him was deafening compared to the voices of the other two. So much so that their scattered raps completely blotted out. His hands barely twitched at his sides, burnt black at the fingertips, and riddled with fire eaten cavities, but otherwise he didn’t move. He lay there in the mirror. In ash, and embers. Trying to answer questions she’d never get the answers to. She could handle the screaming banshees wearing his face, but the mirror was unbearable enough to get her moving, again. 

She dug her nails into her arms hard enough to draw blood, and looked up into the sky through glass. She would have been blinded if the thick clouds from last night had been carried away, but she watched them loiter overhead when she tried to flip over. 

Covered in rising spores, the cloud's cover over the sun hid behind gray plumes, making the surface seem like some kind of neglected tank growing algae. It was a conscious thought that poked its head through the glare of many other overwhelming observations, but as funny as the thought may have been in any other situation, it was probably the most unnerving one now. Living in a tank. 

Sunlight covered her skin like a thick blanket, all encompassing and comforting to the touch. It was such a bizarre contradiction. 

Was it all just getting too much? 

Overactive neurons, and ever firing synapses started to numb up the side of her left arm. Black gloop still dripped off of her finger tips from where they had dug in, but even under the verbal assault of the Dihn-like creatures she knew she had to stay in the sun. 

There was no way of truly telling how much time had passed, but in the time she had spent here, the patch had half shifted over the living room table. The compulsion to follow it clutched her internal organs in a vice until she complied. The wood was warm already, and if she covered her ears hard enough, it was easy to ignore the voices beckoning her, antagonizing her. 

It was so nice to just feel warmth, even if her own body seemed to reject it. Slowly, she stretched her arms out on the coffee table and gingerly tried to situate herself. Their voices were still floating around. Like sharks smelling bloodied chum, they circled her, cut in places. The mirror Dihn’s nothing cut the noise with vacancy, and oddly enough that is what made her cower. 

Soon there was nothing.

Leaning forwards, she pressed her stomach against the edge of the table, and her head in her arms, trying not to tremble. The rays of light warmed demulcent sheens of oily sweat that dripped into the broken skin around the ribs and arms. The veins were so dark she wondered if maybe it wasn’t so crazy to think she was in an abandoned tank. Her skin was nearly translucent enough for the root networks underneath her skin to be seen. The blackened veins reminded her of cave fish. See through. Barren. Alive, _somehow_. Angelica loved cave fish. She always got a giddy look in her eyes when they popped on screen. She could still imagine her expression, half agape and half a bite of Captain Crunch hovering above her bowl. Without fail, milking dripping everywhere she’d pop off something like: “Boupha look at those guys. They’re like living skeletons! Can you imagine what it would be like for everyone to see your heart just beating in your chest like that?! Nature’s _fucking_ crazy…”

Boupha didn’t have to wonder anymore, than that, now.

More tears came, sluggish, dwindling pools, as a heaviness settled over her like dropping air pressure. Her hunched shoulders relaxed underneath the magical touch of the sun on her skin, but a gaping hole opened in the pit of her stomach like a bottomless well. The quiet was a momentary relief, and an eternal torture, but it gave her a space to think in the calamity. She let her brain attempt to mull over what she had just seen, felt, and heard. Even while her heartbeat pulsed inside her ears, and up the back of her throat. The numbing prickle in her arms spread up the left side of her torso, and while it managed to keep another bout of sickness low, a small voice in her head set off sparks of alarm that mostly went unheard. 

It was easier to just enjoy not feeling something. That was a familiar enough want. 

The bathroom door squeaked on its hinge, and poorly masked glee tickled the air. Boupha tried not to visibly cringe when, emboldened by her silence, laughter followed. She refused to look at her. She didn’t _want_ to look at her. 

She couldn’t do it then, and she couldn’t do it right now. Didn’t want to do it right now... or maybe, ever. But, it didn’t matter. Even without looking up, she could hear the rest of the door open, and a pair of feet step out delicately. 

They took their time. One step. Then, the other. Two steps.A separate set. Light, and playful.Feet on rugs, then hardwood. The floor creaking under methodical weight.Boupha buried her eyes in her arms, wilting inwards, and shaking her head. 

_Please don’t..._

Her mind tried to pull inwards. Much like her body, it seemed too exhausted to do more than shrug against the approaching footsteps. They stopped over her, watching her back appraisingly before dropping to a knee. A weight slid into place behind her, and the familiar feeling of a chin instantly slotted itself onto the corner of her shoulder. Breath puffed against the side of her neck, and acrylic nails brought blooming patches of goosebumps in their wake. Gentle slides over her shoulder blades danced between blooms, and score marks she’d put there herself. 

Her fingers gripped bare knuckled on the table in anticipation of another onslaught, and Boupha had to shut out the constant stream of ' _nononono_ ' running through her head. Even closing the rest of the world off, blues and yellows danced across her scrunched eyes.

" _You look tired_." 

The gentle, wild smells of primroses and lake water nuzzled their way against the inflamed skin on her nape with no small amount of satisfaction. Boupha flinched. A small sob squeezed between her teeth. Angelica's voice drifted through the air like the tone of a tuning fork, lingering, alluring as a siren's song. Silent and promising as the first spring rain’s midnight tapping at a window sill. Insistent. Magnetically coaxing. 

Boupha knew she wanted to ask for her to turn around without the words even being said, but it was hard to face her. It was hard to look at her, now. Just like it was hard to ignore her. Angelica hummed loosely, nosing against the line of a tendon.

“ _Aren’t you tired, Boupha? You can tell me if you need something... Do you need something…?_ ”

Boupha shook her head, gritting her teeth against more elegiac tears. Angelica hummed again. It was a warm noise that never matched the bones in her hands, or the chill of her breath. Boupha wanted to squirm out from under her and leave them both behind. The musical lilt of her voice urged her forward like it was a promise to save her.

“ _Come on, Boo-Boo._ Look _at me_.”

A wave of conscious thought gained enough traction to put some minuscule tack of courage back in her. A defiance she had always had. A rebellious intonation that she’d begrudgingly ignored, but held onto most of her growing years.

_Leave me alone... You’re not real. None of you can be real._

Sitting up with spinning vision, and tilted discolorations dancing in the pits of her cornea, Boupha turned enough towards where her voice had been to match it’s stare. Expecting more empty air, she spooked when she was met with beautiful brown eyes and an impish grin. Cold, hands glided down to rest conspiringly at the top of her hip, smiling back at her deliciously pleased about something. 

_... She... looks so real… could it...?_

Boupha’s voice was a glued, unchaste thing. Too over exerted to ever be more than an animalistic parody of her original voice. The tone unraveled on her tongue like pricked thread. Her jaw hung askew, partially fractured from putting too much strain on it. “An-ange-Angel?” Angelica dimpled, almost eye to eye with Boupha. Entrancing as spider eyes and twice as deep, she giggled, and removed herself from the place she had claimed. 

_"Now, don't look like you've seen a ghost,"_

She leaned back, before standing in one smooth glide. Boupha stared up at her in shock, and dawning horror. The light seemed to simply soak into her skin, lighting her up as perfectly as a marble statue—save any of the shadows that were supposed to fall into place—and glided up into the air like she was lighter than dust. With a coy, ‘come hither’ look, she curled her finger towards her, beckoning Boupha to join her, and faded completely once she backed out of the sun, and disappeared for good. Like vapor.

"I…" Opening and closing her mouth, she searched for any words. They didn’t come. The hand Boupha extended out to Angelica fell, then clutched. Bringing it to her chest, she fought the deepening hole in her chest. The maw grew ever wider. Growing. Freezing. A subspace that dropped away to an endless cold. 

Had this always been here? It wasn’t new. Somehow she knew it wasn’t new. It was just larger, now. It was just larger than her. It was just large enough to start pulling her in. To start devouring her whole. A debilitating pain crept from the back of her skull. It clamped into her temples, and pressed outwards against her eyes. The gel of her eye pushed outwards from under her tear duct. Another flower, one of dozens, pushed its way open. More greenish-yellow fuzz puffing into the air and climbing up to the skylight.

It had always been this way, hadn’t it? All the people in her life left, eventually.

Her dad—who didn’t even have a picture on their mantle to remember him by—was happier to bar hop than stick around for the one kid he was supposed to protect. He lived in bliss, and died in a stupor because she just wasn’t loveable enough to make him reconsider putting down a pint. She wasn’t enough to prevent the DWIs, or the last crash he took. She wasn’t enough to stop him. Later, it never became enough to stop _her_.

Her mom, who became the only family she could put any faith in, put her on the back burner until she burned out herself. She spent all of her time cleaning up the ruins her dad left behind, and never made her think that she cared. She spent all of her time in a mask. And was so obsessed with all of the things she could hurt her, and ended up doing wrong. She never suspected that the one thing that might have remedied the situation was if _she_ took the initiative—if she was the adult—and spoke. She never did, not until the phone call. The last time she held her mom was two years ago. She could have reached out, but she let her resentment drive a wedge between them, and no one won their one-sided pissing contest in the end. 

She’d left the boy of her dreams behind to die chasing adventure, and now her childhood companion was lost to her for good. She would never get the chance to apologize, or right things. They would never have the life they planned, because she was selfish. She promised to help him, to be by his side, but when he needed her, she wasn’t there. There was no forgiveness for something like that, and she couldn’t even ask for it, now. She ripped that choice right out of his hands.

Now that she was here, Angelica would have to leave her behind, too.The girl that finally convinced her to help herself. The girl who somehow saw past all her bullshit, and gave her endless chances to be better, who never left her behind. But, she wasn’t. 

She was never better, even after she finally kicked the alcohol, and started going to therapy. Even after the many nights they talked together. Even after the mornings they made each other breakfast, and gently teased one another. She knew what she really was. She knew what she was trying not to feel. All she managed to do was take advantage of their friendship to make herself feel better. And now she had to go.

Yes, it had always been this way. Too impersonal. Too void. Unfulfilling. 

It grew. Deepened. Seeped in her skin like ice water. 

Boupha slumped back onto the coffee table, but felt no warmth, just a pervading numbness that soaked into everything. Even the excruciating pain started to go, even as tears dribbled down her cheeks, and the leaves on her shoulders shifted to angle towards the sun better. A single thought floated to the bottom of her mind as the colors, and shadows scrambled together, and the whole of her consciousness ebbed away. 

... _empty_ …

The rest of the delicate pink buds bloomed, popping open one-by-one across the arch of her back with small rustles. The room was silent.

And Boupha Muy never got up, again.

* * *

_International Hero League Archival Filing, and Administration Report_

**IHL ARCHIVAL LOG Code:** 523434565757

 **Incident of Civilian Casualty:** 2,473,785

 **Status of the Afflicted:** Raised Honors w/ Privileges to Privatized Telecommunications, currently severed from contact

 **Status of the Infection:** Terminal/Complete Brain Death/Other

 **Date admittance** : 03/25/2020

 **Observation Deck Attendant:** SonarPunk

 **Hero Assigned:** Scarlet Beast

 **Perpetrator:** Blackhat Org.

 **Patient ID** : 167

 **Age** : 22

 **Patient, Last Name:** Muy

 **Patient, First Name:** Boupha

 **Date of birth** : 01/18/1998

**Prior Medical History:**

[REDACTED]

**Medication History:**

[REDACTED]

**Vaccination Record:**

[REDACTED]

**Special Notes:**

  * Raised Honors applied in compliance with IHL Archival Record Ordinance 1567, Witness Testimony Awards, and Honors.
  * Privatized Communications allowed under request of REDACTED REDACTED 
  * _EDIT-_ \- Privatized Communications have been revoked under a violation of a HIPAA breach to civilian contact. No contact until termination will be permitted.



* * *

The IHL league’s new research facility was a fully operational unit by December. While it was a state of the art building, they had to stagger the building's timeline to make it seem less suspicious. It was, after all, another product of Quantum Commander. The general consensus was that it was, perhaps, better to publicize the building after its completion instead of before it was pitched. The public view of the general affairs office was precarious like that. 

Quantum had such a talent for his crafts. The man could manipulate inorganic matter at will, create impenetrable fortresses, and even reconfigure any solid alloy by hand. But he had some dependency issues that the crowds whispered about enough to be a _problem_. After scrutiny on a few of his off-the-clock habits came to light, they had to swap his name out for an up and coming engineer instead. It was his own fault for getting too loose lipped about it, but the matter rested like silt and no one really forgot it. With the current calamity, Quantum's hand in the construction would hopefully be overlooked, and forgotten. 

It was a bit of a shame. He was a vet, so most of it was easy to throw up justifications around, but it still made people nervous enough to be doubtful. They needed as much credibility as possible to draw in infected citizens at the start, but once the severity of what they’d captured reared its head, SonarPunk had to make some amends to a few choice thoughts of his own. 

No one actually knew what BlackHat had planned in February. That was the problem.

In a battle where there was an undisputed brawn, brains were the key to a success, and they were under prepared for whatever he launched that day. It was an unusual situation, all in all. BlackHat was mostly a recluse, and yet he’d come to disrupt a public rally. Scarlet Beast was _targeted_. The gas was shot off. The crowd was poisoned. Dr. Flug left them with some cryptic warning, before they both disappeared.

 _It was unusual to see Blackhat actually make a presence. He’s usually content to root in place, and send his lackeys. But now, it’s obvious why_. SonarPunk thought, scribbling notes from behind the observation tank 167’s wall. _They would have been collateral…_

Huffing a quiet snarl between his teeth, he worked the piece over in his head. Agitation tickled his grip, but the ballpoint remained steady. A trail of fog appeared on the underside of his mouth piece, but it cleared just as quickly, and he made a mental note to also send a thank you to the weapons tech crew for being smart enough to separate his goggles from his rebreathing apparatus. A few of the doctors had already started complaining about the lower functioning ones that the medical staff received. It was a small luxury, given everything else.

_No need to get worked up about that right now, I have papers to fill… I’m going to have to thank Quantum Commander personally for his work here, it’s made my life exponentially easier._

It really had. 

Living metal, and robotized buildings were a blessing in the grand scheme of things. No extra medical appenditures or cell blocks had to be fitted in around the public, and when symptoms worsened in bulk of the patients it was easy as asking him nicely, and offering a bottle of particularly nice Tequila to have all the rooms sealed off and made biohazard zones. They didn’t have to relocate, or even schedule in cleaning crews. It was very convenient and clean when they had to adapt. 

SonarPunk flipped through the stack of paperwork on his pad. A muffled, smacking noise filtered through the glass. He glanced up from the clipboard, then sighed. The entry door stayed silent against the force slamming into it, but the body attacking it was still likely to break when that much force was applied. Mark felt tempted to roll his eyes at the pathetic display. He didn’t, even though he was alone. It was in bad taste when she could no longer control herself. Even if it was fruitless, and making a mess. 

Two more wet thuds, and a scream followed. Patient 167 rammed her body into the door a final time before she stumbled back with a shriek. _Probably a nurse aid walking by. Why they keep trying to sneak down the central halls is beyond me…_

The infected who had already succumbed got riled up by the quietest noises. Setting them off wasn’t in their best interest, so he made a point of trying to limit clearance down that walk way. More screeches and shrieks started kicking up past the glass of other invented observation tanks and SonarPunk nearly growled.

_Someone's getting fired. I really don’t want to have to spend more time here than I have to. I have enough on my plate, and that includes figuring out what steps we’re going to have to take to even think about infiltrating BHO. He’s getting worse, more daring. Breaching public appearances again…_

The girl in 167 clawed at the door. Grappling smooth metal with blood slicked hands and gargling angrily. In only a week’s time the new buds had blossomed, and began to spread to more of the skin down her body. Camellias stuck out of the meat in her ribs, and down the calves of her legs. The contrast between the circulatory system, and the wooden cords under her skin were pretty stark, even under her darker complexion the venules were completely visible. He could trace them with his eyes even a room and a half away. The chords, from what doctors could tell, had roots. Extremely long, thin ones. That leeched off her circulatory tract like their own personal irritation. 

It was just as sickening as it sounded. Thankfully, they were finally getting a mock up of how the thing progressed. The more they learned, the easier it would to map out countermeasures. So far, it was mostly speculation.

It was a cycle with many changing phases. The spores infected the lungs, so the lungs made mucus to trap foreign particles. The mucus clogged the airways, so the infected would be forced to cough up the excess to prevent over saturation. When coughing wouldn't clear excess quickly enough, the body resorted to ingestion and expulsion. But unfortunately, that was a very damning action. Even if it was involuntary. Because the spit was contaminated .

The plants wouldn’t germinate if the endospores never reached it, but the acidic well of the stomach was a perfect place for them to shed their capsules, and take root. It might take a couple of tries. A few failed cuttings that ingested, and expelled like any other foreign body, but once the right hormone-biochemical balance established itself in the host, the parasitic plants wouldn’t stop. Once the growths fitted themselves into the smooth muscle of the stomach body, they seeped into the rest of the circulatory system. From there it was only a matter of time before everything got too swamped to keep the host alive.

It was a brilliant example of synthetic-biochemical warfare. Taking every internal defense as an opportunity to forward its own agenda. Pestilence incarnate. 

That made it all the harder to tear apart, and study. DNA so mashed together and nonsensical that even extensive testing in the microbiology ward yielded little more than a few shrugs. BlackHat had a thing for employing demons. And if nothing else, Dr. Flug was definitely one of the better ones he’d chosen to collect. You had to be working under BlackHat, but Dr. Flug was a problem. 

Stats from both on the field, from the hellish pitfall of his lab only reinforced to the IHL archival logs that he performed exceptionally compared to previous henchmen listed under the BlackHat Organization’s roster. He surpassed them to extraordinary degrees. To _impossible_ degrees. To terrifying, and bloody degrees. There was even a running theory that he was the final factor in BlackHat's reemergence the past ten years. The means to the ends of thousands, by proxy. 

There were thousands like him, but none of those thousands measured up to something like _him_. A quiet trademark of his was routinely stunning panels of specialists who had dedicated their lives to their professions. It was something other historically cataloged engineers hadn’t actually pulled off. That was something specific to Doctor Flug Slys. That and the fact that he didn’t seem to have just one specialty.

He seemed to dabble in most everything, but had absolutely no credentials (or history) of any kind. Between the mask, and full body coverage, he was unidentifiable. Never left fingerprints. Never left traces. If he _wasn’t_ a demon of some class, then he was a walking John Doe. And really... Only a malevolent spirit, or a mad man could even think about _half_ of what he actually managed to make.

By the way the patient of suite 167 was behaving, a majority of her circulatory system was compromised, and at least a few of the root networks had breached their way into her skull cavity. Probably tampering with her occipital functions. It was a slow, and nasty process. Once those sprouts tapped into neurons and burrowed enough little holes to hook themselves in for good, she was as good as gone. It was hard to tell if the succumbed were still alive and essentially braindead beyond basic instincts, or if this was a parasite that extracted the host. They didn’t have enough information. Not yet.

Constant updates did help, although… There just weren’t enough god damn doctors. It was a part of the reason why he took this one on, himself. Boupha Muy was now little more than a walking flower garden. A garden, which was very determined to get to whatever was making noise outside the door, and very little else.

She hadn’t taken to the standard breakfast ported into her room, but she’d taken swimmingly to a rat that had tried to pilfer something off of the rotting trays. How the thing got in was a mystery, but it didn’t last longer than a minute when it decided to leave the safety of the pantry. The fresh splash of red down her front mixed poorly with the black fluid that dripped out of the wounds in her arms. It probably smelled pretty bad.

_Thank god we don’t have to clean this. What a goddamn mess…_

The bud half pushed through her eye had begun to bloom beautifully, and another was burrowing out from underneath the other. Her hair tangled with flowers and stems. Her skin was sweaty, and desaturated. The only color left in her skin was lost to the roots beneath her skin, leeching off whatever nutrients were left in her body. Trying in vain to get more. A croaky groan escaped her lips, but without any more meat for her troubles, she turned back around. The noise was gone now.

Repetitive click of heels faded before long, and once it was silent enough to lose her interest, she disengaged the door. When all the other patients settled, she returned to the sun. Light from the window was much more appealing to the flowers. It was probably the same for all of them. 

He watched her a moment longer from the other side of the mirror, recording stats, filling in information through the admin-viewer interface, and reviewing snapshots the room had taken that documented different aspects of her decline. When she hunched over to expose the leaves on her back to the sun, he went back to filling out her paperwork.

Observation bay 167. Boupha Muy. She seemed decent. A little frivolous, but decent. SonarPunk dragged a photo set off the main wall to get a better look at them, and added more observations into the data bank when Flare walked into the 100s’ bay. With a bit of annoyance he realized that she was probably the culprit stirring up the patients. She wasn’t smiling, but he knew something else was probably stirring her up, too. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing loafers in here? You’re stirring them up more than necessary and I don’t appreciate it,” He said, still writing, and still using the touch screen to toggle through progression photos for new evidence. Flare huffed, but didn’t argue. 

“Are you asking me to strip off my heels in a government facility? That’s _tacky_ , Mark. I was just in a meeting with surveillance. It’s your fault for getting wrapped up in observation deck duties, not mine.”

“Honestly, I’m just glad you’re wearing PPE without rhinestones. We don’t have the pleasure of everyday frills right now.” Her grin quirked foxishly in the dark, but she complied. Stepping out of her simple heels, and sidling up to Mark’s left side to bumped hips with him. She took a moment to admire Mark’s sharp profile in the blue light of the touchpad computers, but either he was too invested or ignoring her. She bumped the side of his hip with hers again, a little more purposely. When he only started sorting audio files in response, she grinned. 

“Cours’ not….-” SonarPunk side eyed her, taking small notes on the new shade of red on her lips, and the clean pressed curls that framed her face. Even without an audience, and barely any light to work with she was showing off. Even with a plexi shield casting a pink hue over her naturally fair complexion, somehow he could tell the gloss was new. He wanted to roll his eyes again—mostly at himself. It probably just came with knowing her so long. Her gaze shifted to the apartment.

“She’s the third to go completely?” Annabelle questioned, staring through the one way glass. Her voice had a soft reverb in the deck. 

The walking corpse twitched, and moved erratically in the sunlight. Synapses firing haphazardly, form bent over like she was prostrating herself to the sun. Nothing surprising, since the Camellias were now in control of her brain. What they needed they were going to get.

“Her hallucinations also seemed to be more severe. Another kind of flower, too. The first case was a bunch of Peonies, and the second was a ‘Bird of Paradise’ bloom. All different colors, all different species, but all the same spores. There’s another angle to this I’m not getting...” 

“It wasn’t just a fluke, then...?”

“According to the documentation, no. Even in the secondary infection stage you can start seeing flowers as early as three weeks. They’re all different, but biologically the same plant. But, why? What determines what the spore buds into? How do they change so much, but always come back to the same kind of spore? How do you even create something like this?!”

“It’s BlackHat, what were you guessing, the _flu_?”

“ _No_... But, not something like this.” Mark stared down at his clipboard, pencil marking things down, and underlining odd notes that might lead somewhere. Inside the room the corpse jerked and settled in place, soaking up the sunlight at an odd stance. Leaves fold outwards, and the whole body locked up. Still as a statue.

Annabelle put a hand on his arm, and for once he couldn’t be bothered enough to shrug it off and scold her. She drew a long sigh in, and killed it softly, letting him keep it as long as he needed it. Maybe, just so he could feel a bit of solidarity. Mark frowned, but relaxed imperceptibly. They were both new heads. They were both trying to deal with the pressure of being asked to step up so suddenly, and prove themselves. If anyone could understand what was at stake, she could. It was probably why she was here, at all. She didn’t tend to like in-person meetings with other staff.

“It responds well to noise. _Aggressively_ ,” She noted after a minute of silence, running her hands down her skirt and curling a finger around a stray strand of hair. A smile laced her mouth when he actually turned to look at her. The southern drawl to her voice completely dropped, for once. Another vexing attempt to throw him off in some way, for no reason. 

“I’m starting to think you wore heels on purpose, Flare. That edges towards insubordination. Try it again, and I’ll have the battalion revoke your clearance from the 100s to the 400s floor,” He said stiffly, sniffing at her. She chuckled, not at all threatened even if she knew he was being serious.

“It really wasn’t on purpose, Mark. I did think it could help you on my way over, though. Did you notice how quick they were to drop? Or how quick they were to run after me?”

“I’m noticing how quick you are to change the subject.”

“Oh, _boo-hoo hoooo_. You just hate having the girls help you out.”

“I hate wasting time. I hate wasting resources. I hate wasting life, and I don’t have enough of any of those things. I seldom hate you- even if you and Oscar like to parade around like peacocks.”

“Hmm, doubt it.”

“Doubt what you like. ”

“You’re such a sweetheart to me, I might actually fall for you someday, you know.”

“Love of god. Do you even know where we _are_?”

“You could almost pretend we’re in an aquarium, or something. It's more romantic like that. And you _somehow_ already need a vacation.”

“...I’m fine.”

“Oh, aren’t we all, right now? Aren’t we absolutely all.” They both turned to look back at the tank. Flare clicked her tongue. “Real bad shame, that girl….she was cute…” she drawled.

Mark breathed through his nose. “You can’t save everyone.”

Oscar would be coming any moment now. Mark was expecting him, but really, Oscar was just... himself, and SonarPunk wasn’t ready for all of his groaning, or whining.

Any problem he couldn’t taunt, or punch was his worst nightmare. Mostly, because he knew he’d get stuck with monotonous tasks he had to be mentally strong armed into doing like filing paperwork. Honesty, he whined so much that it was a wonder more work didn’t end up getting done. 

He hated sitting still, and made it everyone else’s problem if there wasn’t a cute girl around to occupy him. However, that was its own headache. Goldenheart was good at what he did, but he had very specific wants and needs. Needs like women. Needs like distracting people. Needs like brutalizing the brutal, and rolling around like a cat in the sun for praise. He was exceptionally giddy to be a head, himself, but not being able to prove himself was slowly making him more irritable. Especially, since he couldn’t engage BlackHat on Valentine’s day. He was a minute too slow, if that.

It was getting even worse now, after he’d been stewing on that thought for weeks. Mark had to be the one to deal with that. That was somehow his problem. 

Goldenheart wanted to be out on the field, but he couldn’t, and he knew that. The only real ‘hands-on work’ he’d gotten recently was not Oscar’s idea of ‘fun heroics', either. After Scarlet Beast had reportedly lunged at, and bit another hero. The man took a good chunk of their arm, and wouldn’t stop chewing until Oscar hit him hard enough to bruise the side of his head. He had to be restrained, afterwards. Much to everyone’s distress, Scarlet Beast managed to swallow about half of the bloody chunk before Goldenheart had walked into the horror show, and put a quick end to it. 

Mr. Brightside was able to heal their arm but they both had to be locked into different rooms as a precaution. They only knew so much, and saliva was a carrier for the secondary infection. It was better to be safe than sorry.

It didn’t seem like Goldenheart was too pleased for that to be the only slice of action he got. Even less so since Scarlet was a fellow hero he tended to spar with. But if anything, it made him more eager to move forward with his own duties. He was the only one who reacted in time, too, so SonarPunk could at least trust him to take action when they needed him to. It’s why he was their third head, and their leader. His gut instinct was god-like. 

“Why did her phone line get cut? I thought she had honors.” Flare asked, losing interest in watching the corpse twitch. One, unblinking eye stared up into the sky while it still had vision. Offhandedly, she wondered if there was something left in there. Scared and alone. 

"I gave her a warning. She just forgot it, or chose not to listen, and I had to take action once I tuned into her line and heard all the details she was trying to leak. I shouldn’t have let her have the phone in the first place, I just- I just want to know the full extent of what they released on us before the civilians start panicking. The more informed we have, the better,” He sighed, glancing down the slim hall for Oscar. He was late, _again_.

“Are we going to go after the file recipient to keep this on the down low, or…?”

“Well, it can’t be hel-” The slam of the entry door cut Mark’s words in half, and he looked up to see Oscar sprinting towards them, and waving his hands wildly to get their attention.

“Mark, Anna! I came to get you, we got _trouble_!” Oscar stomped towards them, slicked hair messied from flying, and looking uncharacteristically distraught. Fingers twisted the bracelets on his wrist as he came to a stop, giving them a firm tug to retighten them. His mouthpiece was filled with fog, probably from his sprint over to the research facility. The yellow plexi cleared after he managed to catch his breath. "The wind really did carry it. There are already cases outside the League building. It’s already started spreading.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to start off by saying, THANK YOU FOR WAITING!!!  
> I know Cht. 3 has been a long time coming, but it was such a big part of the overall story I wanted to take some time on it. This is my first time writing for a fandom, and I tried my best to make it as quality as whump can be. THAT BEING SAID----  
> FOR EVERYONE THAT NEEDS TO DETOX: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rRbHTeAcJLQ&list=PLfO2kc0hX8V8u1riWCp1GOeBPY7uvus6K&index=4  
> ^^^Here’s a link to Jenna Marble’s + her dogs getting roasted by Twitter. You deserve it. Please take some time today to go look up some silly stuff, and get some food, medication (if you haven’t already taken it today), sunshine, ect. Self care! This was a rough chapter! I KNOW, I CRIED SO MANY TIMES TRYING TO WRITE THIS! Self CARE, please!  
> After you’ve had a chance to get some fluffies in, I’d like to leave you all with a few words.  
> This was probably a hard read for a lot of reasons.  
> I can’t say none of my personal thoughts/feelings went into it Because they did, since, like Boupha I was a kid growing up queer in the bible belt. Trying to make sense of everything when unexpected feelings/thoughts came my way, and I wanted to say to all my readers who may be going through the same sort of questions that it is ABSOLUTELY WONDERFUL for you to feel attraction to the same sex. It’s completely natural and normal to feel a spark with people you get close to, and I understand communicating that might be insanely hard. I underwent trauma at a younger age, emotionally, and that ended up turning my thoughts to something pretty dark. I didn’t know who I was, or where I stood, or how to intercept all the new feelings I had, when I had so many unresolved ones, and that is how I found myself spiraling. Much like Boupha, you own thoughts can turn against you in the worst ways when you feel like you. are cut off from everyone else in your life, and can’t be reached. Support systems, and the bonds you have with other people are key to improvement.  
> Boupha Muy is Bi, and I wanted to write her as realistically as possible, but she’s an unreliable narrator in her own story that (unfortunately) isn’t given the time, care, or support to absolve that.  
> Make NO MISTAKE, Boupha is absolutely a good person. She’s trying to do better for herself, she’s developing feelings, and she recognizes that she is doing so, but she also has unresolved feelings surrounding her trauma, and a general distrust of other people. She doesn’t address her traumas, either. She idealizes her relationships, involves her traumas in every relationship she has(directly/indirectly), and does not communicate her true feelings to others. That’s why her ‘love’ is so skewed in the end, but she was also not fully grown up. It’s no fault of her own.  
> I’d like to make it clear that she is in no way me, or a self insert of any kind. She is a purely fictional character, but I wanted to explore the negative end of being queer, the social pressure, and the doubts that come come with that, underneath the main allegory we are shooting for.  
> I am personally, really upset with a lot of situations happening right now.  
> If you can’t already tell, this chapter, even by itself is an allegory for the unlawful detainment of citizens, the poor conditions they are given, and the overall apathetic view that they take with systemic negligence/confinement/exploitation. Especially for women of color, and even more so for queer women of color. This is not the “kill your gays, or POC trope” (she’s probably going to be our only casualty) and this is not the end of the story by a long shot, this is a tragedy. Plain and simple. This is innocent life being reduced to a number, and after seeing so many numbers, I wanted to write this from a place of human experience. We, as people, should not have to fear those who swear themselves to the law. Vulnerable people should not have to feel like they are the only ones they can rely on. However, I want to stress that there is no greater evil, nothing more disgusting, than those that lay claim to titles, but throw the people they are supposed to help to the side for their own agenda.  
> This is a tragedy of several kinds of negligence. It’s a grueling thing to read about, but I don’t want this to be misconstrued as anything but a tragedy. Negligence is its own form of violence.  
> Thank you all very much for reading, and please, go hug your loved ones, today.  
> 


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